

Say You're Sorry!

(Book One)

A Gripping Crime Thriller

By

IAN C.P. IRVINE

Published by Ian C. P. Irvine on Smashwords

Copyright 2017 IAN C.P. IRVINE

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright observed above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Google and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to my Dad.

"Thank you very much, but not enough."

Other Books by Ian C.P. Irvine

I Spy, I Saw Her Die

Haunted From Within

Haunted From Without

Time Ship

The Orlando File

The Messiah Conspiracy

London 2012: What If?

The Sleeping Truth

Alexis Meets Wiziwam the Wizard

Please note: This is the first book in a two part series. The story begins with Book One, carries on seamlessly and concludes with Book Two.

This is an excellent way to introduce yourself to this new and exciting author!- If you enjoy Book One, to continue the story you may then choose to download Book Two.

Alternatively, you have the option to purchase an Omnibus version containing both Book One and Book Two, which readers are recommended to purchase.

Chapter 1

Edinburgh

The Edge of Salisbury Crags

October

Tuesday

00.30 a.m.

"If you beg me to let you live, then I'll consider it. But if you don't, I'll assume you want to die, and I'll help you fulfil your last wish. The choice is yours. But speak up, just in case I can't hear you!"

The man kneeling in front of Tommy McNunn looked up with pleading eyes. His face had turned deep purple from trying to speak, but the duct tape wrapped around his head and jaw kept his mouth firmly closed.

As he struggled to break free, the duct tape securing his hands behind his back cut into his flesh. Twice so far he'd managed to rise to his feet, but each time a swift punch to the left kidney from one of McNunn's heavies had brought him quickly back to the ground.

Ignoring the man on his knees, Tommy took a step closer to the edge of the cliff and peered down into the blackness beneath.

Fifty metres below he could just make out where the ground appeared, sloping away from the Crags at forty-five degrees until it met the road another hundred metres further down.

Feeling a weird sensation in his testicles, and fighting an insane urge to jump, he stepped backwards.

"Whoa! It's even scarier in the dark than in daytime."

Tommy shook his head and turned his attention back to the man cowering on the ground, fear evident in the tiny pinpricks of his pupils despite the lack of light.

Tommy reached into his pocket and pulled out two photographs, holding them up in front of the man's eyes.

Shielding the light from the city beneath, Tommy flicked on the small torch and shone it at the photographs.

The man on the ground whimpered, recognising his two little girls.

"Nice kids. Beautiful. Took these myself, this morning. How old's Suzanne now? Ten? And Claire? Eight?"

The man tried to say something, but it wasn't intelligible.

"I imagine they've both got promising futures ahead of them. If I let them live. No, sorry, if _you_ let them live."

This was the part that Tommy had been looking forward to. The part he always enjoyed most. He'd rehearsed it in his mind's eye repeatedly while figuring out the best way to say it to get maximum impact: this was the moment he handed the choice over to his victims and let them choose their own fates.

Bending down, he leaned closer to the man and studied his eyes. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and for some strange reason, the man had stopped trying to speak.

"You're confused, aren't you?" Tommy asked. "That's probably my fault. I haven't explained myself very well have I? Let me try again. You see the thing is, Keith - do you mind if I call you Keith? I mean, I wouldn't want you to complain that I'm not polite, or that I hadn't given you the choice. You see, for me, it's _all_ about the choice. Like the choice you made when you decided to double-cross me... to _try_ to double-cross me. To keep my money. To screw me. You had the choice, you took it. Fair play to you. But now you have to accept the consequences of that choice and pay the appropriate price. Are you getting this, Keith?"

The man just stared at Tommy. Confused. Scared. And shivering from the cold.

From behind, unannounced, another sharp blow to the left kidney.

Keith fell forward, his face landing in the dirt, his nose buried in the grass.

Tommy nodded and two large hands pulled him back up into a kneeling position.

"I'll ask you again, Keith. Are you getting this?"

The man quickly nodded.

"Good. Well, the thing is this... given that I'm such a lover of choice, I'm going to offer you another one. In case you hadn't realised where you are, this is the Cats Nick, the most famous part of the Crags. It's fifty metres straight down over the edge of the cliff to the bottom. In the old days if you were guilty of a crime, ... for example, if you stole a loaf of bread or committed any small misdemeanour, they'd throw you over the edge. If you died, you were obviously guilty of the crime, but if you lived you were set free. I find that kind of justice inspiring. Don't you?"

Keith nodded.

"Good. That helps. Now getting back to the choice I want to offer you... I know a lot about you, Keith. I know all about your family. Your wife. Your children. And they're all lovely. Really lovely people. Which means it would be a shame if I had to kill them. Which I'll do, probably tomorrow, or maybe the next day. If you _want_ me to."

Behind the duct tape, Keith started to scream, trying furiously to push himself back up to his feet.

Another blow to his kidney, but this time a strong hand on his right shoulder kept him from falling over.

"Sorry, Keith, there I go again. Not properly explaining myself. The thing is Keith, you tried to steal -what was it? Three hundred thousand pounds from me? And if you price your family at one hundred thousand each, that makes three lives, doesn't it? You owe me three lives. _Three_ lives."

Tommy stood up, and turned away from Keith, looking out over the city of Edinburgh sprawled beneath them. For a while he was silent, savouring the moment. The next part was going to be the best.

Slowly, rather dramatically, just like in any of the great Hollywood films, he turned back towards Keith to deliver the punch lines.

"But like I said, I want to give you the choice. A simple choice. In two minutes I'll remove the duct tape and set you free. Not completely free, obviously, I mean, I'm still going to kill you. I _WILL_ definitely kill you. We're going to push you off the cliff. I'm sure you've guessed that bit by now. I mean, why the fuck would we bring you all the way up here, unless that's what we were going to do? And then afterwards we're going to kill your family too. Or to be more accurate, we _might_ kill them... Whether I kill them or not actually depends entirely upon you. You see, the choice I'm offering you is this... When I set you free, I'm going to count to sixty. If by the time I've counted to sixty, you've voluntarily, of your own free will, stepped off the cliff and chosen to throw yourself to your death... then, I promise you, I'll not harm the rest of your family. You have my word on that."

This was the best part.

Tommy stepped forward and shone the torch into Keith's face. The look of fear was amazing. The incredible terror. Tommy could only imagine what was going through the man's mind.

Of course, Tommy had seen that look of fear many times before, but he never tired of it. He never found it boring. It was what made this part of his job so enjoyable. Even addictive.

There was a sudden stink, and shining the torch downwards and looking at the man's trousers, Tommy wasn't surprised to see that the man had simultaneously evacuated his bowels and his bladder.

The man was so scared he had literally shit his pants.

Tommy smiled.

Then he nodded at one of the two men standing behind Keith, who reached forward with a Stanley knife and sliced open the tape wrapped around Keith's wrist and ankles.

Reaching up to the tape wrapped around Keith's face, the thug hesitated, waiting for permission from his boss before proceeding.

Tommy held up his hand and made a show of pulling back his sleeve so that he could see his watch.

"Remember, Keith,... this is how it goes. Rab takes off the tape, I start to count. If I reach sixty and you're still here, Rab and Dougie throw you over the edge, and we kill your family. If you're gone before sixty, your family live. Got it?"

The look of confusion on Keith's face was priceless. Absolutely wonderful.

From experience Tommy knew that to leave it too long was wrong. He nodded at Rab, who grabbed the edge of the tape under Tommy's ear and sliced it off, accidentally removing part of the ear in the process. Keith didn't seem to notice.

"One, two, three, four..." Tommy started to count.

Keith was now free.

"Fuck... fuck.... shit!" he muttered loudly while looking fervently from Tommy to Rab and then to Dougie.

"Shit..., shit...."

"Eleven, twelve..."

Keith edged towards the blackness, the point where the wet grass and the ground disappeared and the sky took over. He bent towards the edge, staring down into the void beneath.

"Twenty nine, thirty..."

The feeling of panic within his body was beginning to overwhelm him, the urge to scream and shout threatening to overcome what little reason he had left.

Glancing behind him over his shoulder he looked into the eyes of Tommy McNunn, saw the smile on his face, and heard him say the number forty-eight.

He thought of his wife, his daughter Suzanne, his little one, Claire.

Closing his eyes and capturing their faces in his mind's eye, he stepped forward.

Into the darkness.

For the briefest moment he felt himself surrounded by rushing, cold air.

Then there was peace.

Chapter 2

Edinburgh

Portobello High Street

Tuesday

11.30 a.m.

"I'm dying. I don't know what I'm dying of, but I know I'm dying!" Jonathan Stuart announced. "I can feel it." He added, hesitantly, hoping to add more weight to his conviction.

Jonathan leaned forward in his chair, removing the tortoise framed glasses from his face and rubbing his eyes. Replacing the frame on the bridge of his nose, and pushing it back with his forefinger so it rested more securely, he fixed his gaze back on the doctor sitting in front of him.

"And what are your symptoms today, Jonathan?" the doctor asked patiently.

"It's a pain, just here..." Jonathan replied, nudging the side of his abdomen with his right hand. "It's awful. Sharp pains. Digging. Sometimes I'm almost doubled up in pain."

"And what do you think it is?"

Jonathan stared at the doctor.

"What do _I_ think it is? I don't know..." Jonathan shook his head. "I really don't know. That's why I'm here. You're the doctor, not me!"

"Well, at least we both agree on that one. Yes, I'm the doctor, not you." The doctor smiled gently at Jonathan.

"Of course, I'll take a look. But Jonathan, honestly, as always, there's probably absolutely nothing wrong with you. There never is."

Doctor Mitchell stood up from his chair beckoning Jonathan over to the examination couch in the corner.

"Please, would you mind making yourself comfortable and lifting up your shirt?"

Jonathan nodded and stood up nervously. He shuffled over to the couch, lifted himself onto the padded surface and lay back.

"Have you thought any more about what I said the last few times you came to visit me? I really think the bereavement counselling I recommended would help you. Honestly, it works wonders. I'm sure you'd feel much better about everything if you were able to attend a few of the classes."

Jonathan shook his head slowly.

"Sorry, I just can't seem to make it to them... going there all alone,... thinking about Sally... no, I can't quite get myself to go."

Dr Mitchell finished putting on the pair of examination gloves and gently placed his fingers on Jonathan's abdomen.

"I'm sorry, I hope my hands aren't too cold..." the doctor apologised. "I understand. Losing Sally was terrible. She was a wonderful woman, and much loved by everyone who knew her. But it's been over three years now, and you have so much to live for Jonathan. Despite what you think, you're one of the healthiest men I know for your age."

"Ouch!" Jonathan exclaimed, recoiling from the doctor's gentle prodding.

"Does that hurt?"

"Yes. A lot."

Dr Mitchell went silent, concentrating. His fingers prodded and gently pushed, carefully exploring Jonathan's body.

"Are you still taking those laxatives I recommended to you?" the doctor asked.

"No. I stopped them a while ago. I found myself going to the toilet a lot more than I wanted to."

"Well, Jonathan, they were laxatives. But I'm guessing that while you were taking them, you weren't having any of these pains, were you?"

"No." Jonathan replied, then coughed again. "Excuse me..."

Dr Mitchell slowly pulled off the gloves, finger by finger, and then dropped them into a small bin by his desk. He moved back to his seat and sat down in front of his computer, waving for Jonathan to join him on the chair beside him.

As Jonathan sat up and edged off the examination couch, he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

"So, what is it, Doctor Mitchell?" Jonathan asked, adjusting his glasses again and staring at the doctor, expectation and hope in his eyes.

"It's the same as it was last week, Jonathan, and the week before, and the month before that. It's loneliness, and heartbreak. There's nothing wrong with you. The discomfort you're experiencing is constipation. It'll go away if you take the laxatives again and drink more water. At least a litre a day. I'm not worried about that. But I am worried about you, Jonathan. You need to get out and about more. Get involved with a life beyond your front door. Try to make some new friends. Find something new to occupy your mind and stop thinking so much about yourself. I know it's difficult, but that's what the group I recommended can help you with. Would you consider going?"

Jonathan adjusted his glasses and looked out through the top clear part of the window in the surgery.

This was the worst time of the year. The leaves had all fallen from the trees, and the branches were bare. Winter was threatening. Jonathan coughed again, this time several times in a row. He raised a hand to cover his mouth, and when he lowered it, Doctor Mitchell noticed a spittle of blood on Jonathan's fingers.

"How's the cough? How long have you had that for?"

"Just a few days. It's nothing."

"You're probably right. Would you mind if I just had a little listen to your chest?" Doctor Mitchell asked, already reaching for his stethoscope. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable back on the couch."

Jonathan stood up, pushed the glasses back on to his nose, and took the few steps back to the couch against the far wall.

This was unusual.

He'd come to the see the doctor with a stomach pain. And loneliness.

He hadn't intended to mention his cough.

Nervously, he loosened his shirt and lifted it up.

Dr Mitchell smiled and put the end of the stethoscope against the old man's chest.

"Breathe in..." the doctor started to chant the mantra that every doctor repeats a million times each day. "Breathe out..."

The look on the doctor's face slowly changed.

It was just a small, subtle change in the face muscles, but Jonathan noticed it immediately.

Dr Mitchell's facial expression morphed from that of a friend, who over the years had come to know Jonathan and his wife very well, to that of the stoic professional.

A few minutes later, they once more sat facing each other beside the doctor's desk.

"Jonathan," Dr Mitchell began. "If you don't mind, there's someone else I'd like you to see... I'll make a few phone calls this morning, and hopefully I can arrange for you to see him later today or tomorrow. Would that be okay?"

Jonathan swallowed hard and pushed his finger up against his glasses.

"Yes," Jonathan nodded. "If you think I should."

The doctor smiled back.

This time, however, Jonathan noticed that the edges of his mouth didn't turn up just quite as far as they did before.

Chapter 3

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Wednesday

6.30 a.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand Mhasalkar closed the door to the small hovel he and his family called home in Anderi, a suburb of Mumbai. Their 'home' was tucked away down a side-street, around the back of the local ICICI Bank, where Anand's mother used to work as a cleaner. Since she had gone blind, the role of cleaning the bank had passed to his nine-year-old sister, who by the age of six was already an expert, having followed her mother around and helped since she was first able to walk.

Since his father had passed away two years ago, - forcing Anand to return to India from Birmingham in England where he was almost about to complete his second year at an English University - Anand had been the main breadwinner: he was now responsible for caring for his two sisters, his little brother and his mother.

Anand's life was hard, but he never complained about it. He was a full-grown man now, twenty-two, and he felt blessed that he had already seen more of life than many Indians his age ever would.

England had been a dream. A dream which had come true. For a short while.

Now though, Anand's life was different and he accepted that, taking on his new duties stoically.

Anand's father had been a good man, and now Anand would be just like him. He would be a good man too.

It was a ninety-minute trip from their two room 'flat' to the call centre on the outskirts of Mumbai where he had worked since returning to India.

At first, he had hated the job: it was boring, mundane, soul destroying. Sitting at a desk for hours on end, all day long, six days a week, answering the telephone and trying to help customers thousands of miles away who he would never see, and never wanted to see.

As the weeks turned into months, his active mind began to dull over with the reality of his new life, but slowly he began to realise that far from being unlucky to have such a job, compared to others around him in his suburb, he was very, very lucky.

With his job at the call centre he earned enough to put food on the table for his family, and to buy second-hand clothes from the street stalls and thieves who always wanted to sell their wares.

Anand accepted that his life would be different now.

He would have to forget his dreams. Put away the hopes he once had of getting a degree, a good job, and buying a nice, semi-detached house somewhere beside the sea in Great Britain.

Ideally a house somewhere near his favourite football club, Hibernian, the team from a place called Edinburgh in Scotland.

He'd never been there or even seen them play apart from on the TV, but when he was a kid living in India, before he was sent to live with his uncle in England, he'd been given a 'Hibs' football strip that his father had bought from a market stall on the street.

He'd worn it every day until the beautiful green colour had faded away and the top had filled with holes.

His stay in England had been too short to see them play, and he'd never managed to find the money to catch the train up north to Scotland.

Anand knew that he should forget his dreams.

It was the only way he would find peace in his new world.

He'd got the job in the call centre because of the English accent he had picked up whilst living with his uncle in Birmingham. Shortly after he had arrived back home, a man in the street had overheard Anand talking to his little sister. He was one of the managers in the call centre and was short of staff.

"Where did you learn to speak like that?" the man had enquired.

"In England, sir." Anand had replied, politely, as his father and mother had taught him.

"What were you doing there?"

Anand had explained. The man had offered him a job. Anand had not been able to say no.

The biggest problem with life in the call centre was the people he had to sit and work with. He rapidly found out that he had nothing in common with them. They had no interests, were poorly educated, and didn't really try to help the people on the other end of the telephone lines who called into them and asked for assistance.

The managers in the call centre didn't really seem to care much either.

Everyone was trained in how to pretend to do their job: they learned how to go through the motions of answering phones and play act as if the company they represented was serious about trying to help their customers. They read from prepared scripts. Learned how to sound sympathetic. Practised how to listen to customers without actually hearing anything they said.

And mastered the ability to feign indifference so well, that when customers slammed the phones down in frustration and incredulity at the apparent stupidity of those who manned the so-called 'help-lines', they simply smiled and moved rapidly onto the next call. No one cared.

It was a numbers game. Not a service.

The call centre in India was part of one of Britain's largest insurance companies. Their job was to answer phones, not to actually help anyone. Call centre managers were paid to hit targets, to ensure that phones were answered within certain times.

Initially, Anand just thought that the poor service was down to the quality of staff that such low wages could attract. Later, though, he came to realise that there was more to it than that.

The scripts that people followed when answering the phones, the training they were given, - or lack of it -, was part of the policy his insurance company stuck to.

It was all part of the grand Insurance Scam Plan: take money year after year from customers who paid their dues, but always, ALWAYS, remember, to find every possible way not to pay anything out, especially when someone turned to them in their hour of need and asked for help.

The Insurance company motto was simple: 'Take a customer's money. And keep it.'

Anand knew that if he wanted to keep his job he had to become like them. He had to fit the corporate mould. To become useless at providing any form of service to all the customers in Britain who would depend upon him.

The calls he took were always so predictable. People with problems expected him to help them. The company, on the other hand, expected him, relied upon him, to be polite, bright, and useless.

"I'm sorry, sir. But if you read the small print, it quite clearly explains that you're not actually covered for that... I'm so sorry, sir. I totally understand. No, I'm sorry. That's not our department. Would you like me to put you through, sir? Okay, thank you. I'll just transfer you. Thank you for calling Swiss Cheese Insurance, insurance contracts which stink and are so full of holes they're worthless to anyone. Especially those who need help. I hope I have been of service today. Bye bye!"

Anand did not want to be like the rest of them. He wasn't like the rest of them. But slowly, step by step, day by day, week by week, he did start to become like them.

He got used to people with real problems shouting down the phone at him. Hanging up. Being abusive. This was thanks to the only real training the company provided, which taught them how to ignore the feelings of customers, and rise above it all. To keep smiling no matter how many times a customer shouted, or Anand had to say no, and apologise.

"I'm sorry, sir. Unfortunately, thanks to the damage done by the stone as it chipped your wing-mirror, the value of your family car which you have so lovingly looked after for the past twenty years is now less than the cost of repairing the car. We've had to write it off... I'm sorry... sir, it's on our system now as an economic write-off... which means that you can no longer legally drive it on the roads as it is... Please don't cry. I am so sorry... I hope I have been of service to you today."

Anand rapidly came to learn that the whole car insurance industry was a scam. A large, money-making, corporate crime perpetuated by corporations and powers that spanned the world.

In his mind, he tried to fight back. He tried not to conform. He tried to do a good job.

Slowly however, day by day, he became excellent at what he did.

He became totally, utterly, useless.

Within a few months he was successfully not helping anyone and saving his insurance company a fortune.

Chapter 4

Edinburgh

Beneath Salisbury Crags

Tuesday 11.35 p.m.

DCI Campbell McKenzie stopped at the bottom of the Cat's Nick, surveying the lights of the city flickering beneath him. He loved this view. He came here often by himself, or with his wife, walking round the Radical Road - a gravel path that ran from the beginning of the Crags and followed their contours at the base of the cliffs as they rose higher and higher until they towered above the city beneath, before slowly returning downwards into the base of Arthur's Seat, the large mountain that dominated the centre of Edinburgh.

This was one of his special places. Somewhere that he came to think, to literally rise above the murk and violence of the beautiful city that he loved, but whose darkside he knew more than most, and was exposed to on an almost daily basis.

One of the attractions of that same Edinburgh, however, was that unlike most other modern cities, the underworld and depravity that pervaded its shadows was never obvious or really threatening to the general populace.

People in Edinburgh who lived decent moral existences, could spend their entire lives without really seeing anything bad, being exposed to the drug culture or being robbed or mugged. This was unlike other 'great' British Cities he had worked in, where crime, violence and drugs were in your face, on the streets and visible to everyone, all the time.

Edinburgh was a haven. A harbour where he had long ago decided to spend his life, and which he had vowed to defend and protect through his work to the best of his ability.

For Campbell, the walk below the Crags was one of his three favourite places in the city. The others were firstly the view from the Castle down over the city below and extending over to the Firth of Forth, the river estuary that separated the county of Lothian from the Kingdom of Fife. His third favourite 'special' place was the walk from the centre of Edinburgh down the side of the Water of Leith through the city down to the sea. The river ran through a gorge that few knew existed, the buses and cars passing obliviously over a bridge above the river that coursed by invisibly beneath. Whenever Campbell left the main street above and descended the flight of steps down underneath the bridge and into the gorge, within seconds he was surrounded by green and tall trees and a river that gurgled and splashed, the city above left far behind. It was another world: empty and peaceful and just seconds from the hustle and bustle of urban Edinburgh.

Special places. Places where the filth and the violence didn't reach.

Until now.

"So, do we know his name?" Campbell asked the young DI standing beside him, without turning to face her.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but he's one of us. I don't know if you know him or not, but I've met him before. He's Keith Urqhart. A Police Constable from Costorphine."

Campbell McKenzie turned and stared across towards the body of the man who had been found just thirty minutes before by someone out walking their dog. The dog had run ahead, disappeared over the side of the path and scrambled down the slope into some whinny bushes, barking wildly.

Knowing something was up from the way his dog was barking, the owner had made his way gingerly down the scree and investigated what the dog had found.

The local police were on the scene within minutes, and Campbell McKenzie himself had only just arrived.

Only five minutes later and he would have been heading out of the station on his way home after another very long day. He'd been looking forward to putting his feet up and reading another few chapters of his latest book, but just as he was shutting up shop, one of his officers had stepped into this office.

"A body's been found below the Crags, sir. You've been requested..."

Campbell stepped over the edge of the Radical Road and grabbing hold of the odd, sparse tuft of grass which poked its way through the scree, he made his way slowly down the side of the hill to the others who were busy cordoning off an area around the body and getting ready to put up a tent so the forensic boys and girls could work in peace.

A few lights had already been erected and were flooding the area with powerful mock-sunlight, revealing the scene in perhaps a little too much detail.

The man was lying on his side, his face half-buried in the scree, his arms and legs lying at odd angles to his torso, and blood soaking all his clothes and the small stones around him.

One of the officers came up alongside Campbell and offered him a black-leather wallet.

Campbell quickly put on a pair of plastic gloves and took the wallet. He flicked it open, examining the contents.

As he looked through it, he started to ask questions.

"Time of death? Any idea?"

"Too early to tell exactly sir, but judging by the state of the body and the blood, I'd say this happened sometime in the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours. His wife reported him missing early this morning. He never went home last night and didn't turn up in the morning, and he wasn't answering his phone. She'd called the station, and he hadn't reported for duty today either."

"What station is he in again?"

"Costorphine, sir."

"Did anyone know any reason why he should be here? Was he working on anything of special significance?"

"We haven't really had a chance to talk to anyone about it yet, sir. We've only just discovered the body..."

"I know, sorry. What's your name?"

"Collins, sir."

"Okay, thank you. I know it's early days, but has anyone got any ideas what happened?" he asked, turning towards the dark shadow of the Crags above.

"It's the Cat's Nick, sir." Collins said, following his gaze. "We're directly below the highest point of the Crags. I'd say he probably jumped."

"Or was pushed..." Campbell replied.

For a second, both men stared up at the top of the cliff, their minds beginning to imagine what happened in the last few seconds of Keith Urqhart's life.

Campbell shook his head and shivered.

Turning back towards the corpse, Campbell knelt down to get a closer look at the man's face.

Although he never said anything to Collins, he recognised the man.

The last time he had seen his face, it was in a recent photograph, captured talking to Tommy McNunn.

Campbell didn't believe in coincidences and never had.

Right now, Campbell didn't know exactly how Urqhart's body had ended up where it was, - although the cause of death seemed apparent - but already his instinct told him one thing for sure: this wasn't a straight-forward suicide. Visualising the photograph once more, his gut told him one more important fact. Somewhere, somehow, Tommy McNunn was involved.

The only question was, how, and why?

Chapter 5

Edinburgh

Portobello

Wednesday 2 p.m.

Jonathan Stuart sat in the lounge of the house in his favourite chair. He was looking out to sea, enjoying the incredible view of the Firth of Forth which he had from his window.

His house was set back from the promenade, shielded from the joggers and tourists by a ten metre stretch of grass running from his building to the large fence at the bottom of his garden.

It had been his wife's idea to turn the room on the first floor at the back of the house into the lounge. From here they could see everything that was happening on Portobello Beach, and right across the bay to Dunbar on the right-hand side, or the Kingdom of Fife on the left.

A few years ago, when Sally was still alive, she used to point to the two thin chimneys of the decommissioned Cockenzie Power station that had reached up tall into the sky, and would complain of their existence.

"They're a blot on the landscape. They should be blown up and removed! They absolutely ruin the panoramic sweep of the landscape. If only someone would see sense and get rid of them!"

Well, eventually someone had. Now they were gone. And so was Sally. Every time that Jonathan looked across at the bay he felt emptiness: he actually missed the chimneys now they were gone, and he missed the sound of Sally's voice complaining they were there.

If she was still alive now, would she miss them too? Or would she be glad that someone had 'seen sense' and got rid of them?

In the hall the clock chimed twice, the sound of the gong being struck reverberating through the empty house and momentarily bringing Jonathan back into the room.

Almost without thinking, he looked at the watch on his wrist, the fingers of his right hand reaching across and curling around the winding mechanism. He looked down at the watch face and adjusted the hands minutely: the watch was old, it needed repairing, and was continually losing time.

Jonathan didn't mind though. Having to adjust the watch every hour gave him something to do.

There was another boat on the horizon now. A large one. Probably another oil-tanker. That made six of them at anchor, all waiting in the bay for the right moment to disgorge their cargo at Grangemouth, just as soon as the price of oil went up a few cents more.

Jonathan picked up the binoculars and focussed on the ship. He had not seen that one before. Reaching for his logbook and jotted a few notes down on the page.

When he was younger, when his life was fuller, he had always found it difficult to understand the mentality of trainspotters or plane-spotters, but now... now he had nothing else worthwhile to fill his own life, oil-tanker spotting had become his big thing. His only thing.

Jonathan Stuart had nothing else to do, really, apart from sit there each day and survey the bay, hour after hour. His kingdom.

The phone was ringing.

Slowly Jonathan rose from his chair, coughed raucously a few times and took the few steps across the room towards the table on which the phone sat.

As usual he never made it in time, but after standing patiently for a minute or two, perhaps five, he saw the little red light start to blink on the top right corner of the phone, signifying that someone had left a message.

It was the surgery.

Apologising.

Unfortunately, the consultant that Doctor Mitchell had wanted him to see was very busy and the earliest appointment that could be arranged for Jonathan was for tomorrow at five o'clock.

Jonathan put the phone down and walked across to the calendar on the wall, hoping that he would get there before he forgot the message.

Reaching into his dressing gown pocket he pulled out the pencil he always kept there and made a few notes on the calendar.

"See Doctor. Six o'clock. Don't forget!"

Returning slowly to his seat he adjusted his pyjamas and sat down again. Slowly he reached for the plate of porridge that he had made for breakfast at midday and put a spoonful into his mouth.

"Shame," he thought to himself. "I was looking forward to the visit."

Lowering the plate of porridge into his lap, his eyes glazed over and for a moment he thought he heard Sally's voice calling to him from downstairs.

A tear began to roll down the side of his cheek.

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station

Edinburgh 3 p.m.

'DCI Campbell McKenzie entered the room, accompanied by Detective Inspector Danielle Wessex. It's 3 p.m.' Campbell announced to the voice recorder on the centre of the table in the interview room, as he slipped into a chair at the table.

"Good afternoon, Mr McNunn. Thanks for coming in." Campbell said, smiling briefly at the man on the opposite side of the interview table and nodding at the woman sitting beside him.

"Good to see you again, Miss Laurie. I trust you are well?" Campbell asked, acknowledging the presence of Tommy McNunn's lawyer. "Although, I don't really think you'll be needed today. I just wanted to talk to Tommy. Informally. We're not charging him with anything."

"Nevertheless," Miss Laurie replied. "It's probably more appropriate that I'm here. I know what you get up to DCI McKenzie, and it's not always, shall we say, ... straightforward?"

Campbell smiled, shook his head, and turned his attention to the lid on the coffee he had brought with him. "It's Mr McNunn's money. He can spend it how he wants."

He lifted the cup and took a sip.

"Well, Tommy. How are you today? Long time, no see?"

"Long enough, DCI McKenzie. Long enough. So, what have you brought me in for today? I'm a busy man, as you know, and as you just pointed out, this wee bird here doesn't come cheap, so the quicker you get this over and done with, the better."

"Understood. And I'll try not to take up too much of your time." Campbell returned the cup of coffee to the table and motioned for Inspector Wessex to hand him the brown envelope in her hands. "This is Inspector Wessex. I think you know each other already? I believe she was the one who arrested you for the Costorphine murder last year?"

Tommy laughed.

"Briefly,yes. Until you confirmed my alibi that I was in fact, at the time of the man's death, in Glasgow."

"In a cinema. Yes. Watching a film in the dark."

"In Glasgow." Tommy re-emphasised.

"Anyway, that was last year. This is now. Do you recognise this man?" McKenzie asked, taking some photographs out of the envelope and pushing them over the table towards Tommy.

McNunn bent forward briefly, his hands remaining passively on the tabletop before him, and making no effort to pick the photos up and examine them more carefully.

"It's pretty difficult to make out his face. It's a bit messed up. Slightly caved in and covered in blood. Should I?"

"I think you should, yes. He's one of your men."

Tommy laughed.

"I don't think so. I've not lost any recently. Last time I checked, none of my employees had died in the past few weeks. Who is it, and what happened to him, assuming it is a 'he'...?"

"I'm surprised you're insisting that you don't know him. We know that you _do_ know him. Let me jog your memory for you. Does the name Keith Urqhart ring a bell?"

"Like I said, should it?"

"PC Keith Urqhart? From Costorphine?"

"Costorphine? Nope, sorry. Doesn't ring any bells at all. Mind you, you guys are always trying to talk to me, and I can't be expected to try and keep track of them all. Can I?"

Campbell took another drink of his coffee.

"Well, that's a question for you to answer, not me. The thing is Tommy, you know that I know that you know him. For now, just leave it at that. When was the last time you saw him?"

"About three seconds ago. In the photograph."

"Before that?"

"About ten seconds ago... When I looked at the photograph for the first time."

"Funny ha ha. Answer the question."

"How can I? I've never seen this guy before. What do you want me to say?"

Campbell turned to the recording device and made a few comments about him showing the photograph to Tommy, and his denial of recognising the man's face. Campbell was tempted to go away and retrieve the file from his desk with the photographs in it that showed some sort of meeting between Tommy McNunn and the dead Police Constable, but he knew he couldn't. He didn't want Tommy to know he was being followed so closely, although there was a possibility Tommy probably already knew.

"Well, that's all for now then Tommy." Campbell said, pushing back his chair and standing up. "Interview terminated at 3.10 p.m." Campbell announced and wrapped up the meeting formally.

"So, what? That's it? You hauled me down here for that?" Tommy asked, standing up quickly, annoyed.

"For what?"

"To show me a couple of photos of a dead copper. Trying to tie me into his death."

"I wasn't. I just wanted to show you the photographs. To let you know PC Urqhart was dead. And to see in your eyes if you already knew that, or not."

Tommy opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

Miss Laurie reached out and touched Tommy gently on the wrist, indicating with a facial expression that they should just leave.

Tommy blinked back in recognition and swallowed whatever it was he was just about to say.

Inspector Wessex took a few steps forward, opened the door and held it open for them, letting the lawyer and McNunn step through.

"We'll talk again soon, Tommy. Very soon. I'm sure of it."

Tommy stopped in the doorway and glanced back at Campbell. His face was blank, but after a second the corners of his lips curled up and he mimicked a smile.

Then he turned and walked out.

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

5 p.m.

Campbell sat in his office, looking out of the window across at his view of Arthur's Seat. St Leonards was the nearest station to the scene of the incident and from where he was he couldn't see exactly where the body had been discovered, but it was only a few metres out of view. It was too early to know for certain whether it was a murder or a suicide, but Campbell was already pretty sure that it would turn out to be the former rather than the latter.

The meeting with McNunn earlier on had been a formality, just to let him know that Campbell was thinking about him. There was nothing yet to really associate him with the body, but there were already several things that were emerging that were indicating that something more was going on than was first apparent.

Firstly, although they were still awaiting the verdict of the autopsy, an initial observation by the forensics officer before the body was taken away pointed out a large cut on the man's right earlobe. It was more of a slice... Something that you might expect from a very thin blade. Like a Stanley knife.

Secondly, there were broad marks around the ankles and wrists, and some visible abrasions on the side of the face around the side of the man's head that was still intact and not destroyed by the fall. It looked like the man had been tied up, probably using duct tape, and had fought to get free.

Thirdly, the man's trousers had been soiled before he had fallen to his death, which indicated that he had been scared. Very scared. From experience, this probably meant that he had not jumped of his own volition.

Fourthly, the man was a police officer. If it turned out that he had been murdered, in a public place, it meant that whoever did it had balls. To drag a man, probably tied up and gagged, all the way up the cliffs, and then push him off, required a certain confidence in their operations, or incredible stupidity. Whoever had done it could have been discovered at any time by someone out walking a dog, or perhaps by a couple of drunk students from the University Halls of Residence just across the road.

If it was a murder, whoever carried it out, was obviously trying to make a statement. The fact that Urqhart was a police officer, and one who was already under suspicion for being on the pay-book of McNunn and maybe others too, hinted at the possibility that there was a connection. Someone in the crime-world was probably upset with Urqhart and was either punishing him, or sending a signal to others like him. Or both.

Campbell spun his chair round and turned towards Inspector Wessex.

"Okay, can you send someone round to his wife again and ask if you can get access to his bank records? We don't have a warrant yet, so this all has to be done on a voluntary basis for now. The chances are that you'll come back with nothing surprising. But dig around. I want to see if there's anything odd happening recently. If you need a warrant, let me know. We'll get one. Ask all the obvious questions again. I know yesterday's conversations with his wife didn't flag anything up, but now she's had a bit more time to think about it, you never know. And push for the phone records. Make sure we know about all the phones that were at his address. If he was on the pay-book of someone else, then he might have some phones squirreled away somewhere that his wife doesn't know about. You'll probably need to talk to the tech boys on this one. We need to build up a pattern of life for Urqhart over the past few weeks and find out everything we can about him as soon as possible."

As the young DI left the office and set off to start carrying out his instructions, Campbell watched her leave. She was an attractive woman, determined, smart, and destined to go far.

Campbell knew that many of the other officers didn't like her, and he knew the reasons why. What's more, he knew that the rumours were true, but he didn't care. Whatever she had done in her past, she had learned from it, and had come out stronger.

Campbell had long ago adopted her as his protégé, and he was determined to help her as much as possible, even if it meant being harder on her sometimes than he really needed to be. She never complained. Never tired of the work. And got results.

She was a good officer.

One of the best.

Chapter 6

Duddingston Crossroads

Edinburgh

Wednesday 7 p.m.

Jonathan Stuart approached the lights at the junction of Duddingston Crossroads with great caution.

As a young man he had loved to drive, but now he found it stressful and confusing. Fifty years ago, the roads had been empty. Fewer people had a car back then, and children could play on the streets without fear of being mown down by a tourist or kid with spots and an L plate.

Today everyone had a car. Everyone.

Duddingston Crossroads was one of the busiest junctions in the area. As long as you treated it with respect, though, Jonathan knew that everything would be okay. Take your time. Look, listen, look again... and never take a chance. Just be cautious.

Theoretically Jonathan had nothing to worry about. In all his years of owning a licence he had never had a crash, never been given any points, and never been in trouble with any other drivers.

Sally and Jonathan had loved to go for long drives around the Highlands, taking in the scenery and enjoying relaxing picnics in the middle of nowhere. With Sally by his side, he would think nothing of driving hundreds of miles in a day. They would talk and talk, sometimes even sing songs together, and the miles would roll past.

Nowadays the car was somehow bigger, and very empty.

Without Sally, everything was empty.

The house, the car, his life, and his heart.

The lights ahead changed and eight cars in front managed to make it through the lights before they started to change again.

Jonathan slowed down and stopped at the junction. He was next up and would be first to go when the lights changed.

Perhaps if he had been in a hurry, he could have put his foot down, and he would have made it through the lights before they turned red. Maybe.

But Jonathan always erred on the side of caution. He was a good driver.

Staring straight ahead he thought momentarily of Sally. Straight across the junction on the left-hand side was Duddingston Golf Club. He and Sally used to be members. They used to play regularly, at least once a week, and enjoyed a good social life there with their friends at the last hole. The 19th.

When Sally had died, the friends had gradually been less friendly, and Jonathan less inclined to be friendly back. In fact, after she had gone, he had only played five times more, then one day he had just given his golf clubs away to a charity shop on Portobello High Street, and he had never gone back.

The lights in front were changing now.

Still indicating, Jonathan released the hand-brake, applied the accelerator and slowly moved off.

Turning to the right he paused in the middle of the junction and waited for the oncoming traffic to roll past him. When it had all gone, he completed the turn into Willowbrae Road.

Driving past the Lady Nairn Hotel on the left he thought briefly about the last time he had been there for a meal with Sally. Two weeks before she had died.

He swallowed hard, and turned his attention back to the road, anticipating the traffic lights ahead and slowing down as they turned red.

Coming to a stop, he applied his handbrake and watched two women cross the road from his left to the island in the middle, the baby in the push-chair waving its hands wildly and laughing.

At first Jonathan did not know what was happening.

There was a loud dull thud, and he felt himself being propelled forwards, almost as if the whole car had been lifted up and catapulted a few feet through the air.

Jonathan felt the seat belt dig into his chest and push him backwards into his seat, followed by a quick surge of pain in his shoulders and his neck.

"Aagghhh" he cried aloud, then blinked a few times, gripping the steering- wheel tightly.

He looked down at his hands, and then his feet. Then slowly turned his head apprehensively from one side to another.

What had happened?

"Oh dear, Sally, I think we've just been hit by a car..." he said, turning to speak to Sally. An empty seat. Jonathan blinked again and swallowed hard.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned to his right and started to reach for the door handle.

Cautiously, he moved across the seat, opened the door and eased himself out.

Standing up, and rubbing his neck, he looked around him. Adjusting the pair of glasses on the end of his nose, he focussed on the car behind his. Its bonnet was about ten centimetres from his rear bumper. The driver, a tall man with a bald head and broad shoulders was now stepping out of his own car, the lips mouthing words which Jonathan could easily lip read from several metres away. Obscenities. The most obvious one being a sexual command which the man kept repeating.

Jonathan took a few steps towards the rear of his car and for the first time in years, swore himself.

"Shit!" he mouthed under his breath, shocked to see the damage that his rear bumper had sustained.

It was immediately obvious that the bumper was beyond repair. Large parts of it had broken off and were scattered in pieces on the road beneath, and most of what was left was hanging off the back precariously.

"Oh no... What am I going to do now?" he asked Sally, wishing that she was there to help him.

Beginning to shake, whether it was from fear or anger, Jonathan didn't know, he turned his attention to the bumper of the car that had hit him.

It too, was destroyed.

Jonathan looked up at the man, who was now standing in front of him.

"Are you alright? You're not injured, are you?" Jonathan asked, courteously.

"I'm fine." The man growled. "You? You okay?"

Jonathan reached up, rubbed his neck again and coughed a few times.

"I ... I don't know. I got quite a bang. I think my neck hurts." He said and then started coughing again. "And my chest hurts quite a bit, too." Jonathan replied, looking at the man.

His eyes were a cold, steely blue. Ice cold. Jonathan felt uncomfortable looking at him. He turned away to look at his car again.

"What happened?" Jonathan asked, almost innocently. "Why didn't you stop? The light was red..."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Shit happens."

"Shit happens? What's that meant to mean?" Jonathan gasped.

"Like I said, shit happens."

The man shrugged again.

Looking up, past the man, Jonathan could see that a steady queue of traffic was building up behind them on the main road. With an immense sense of relief, Jonathan saw that just three cars behind the car that had hit his was a police car.

"Hang on," Jonathan said. "I'll get help."

Slowly, Jonathan hobbled over past the green car which had hit his, - a large BMW with fancy wheels - and then passed one more behind it until he got to the police car.

The officer inside looked up at Jonathan as he approached and wound down the window.

"Can you come and help please? I need a witness... and I don't know what to do. I've never had an accident before."

Almost reluctantly the woman police officer behind the wheel nodded, opened her door and got out, reaching back into the car for a hat and then putting it on. On the other side of the car, a male police officer followed suit, got out, nodded at his colleague and then walked off to start directing the traffic around the incident.

"So," the woman police officer said, as she started to walk with Jonathan back to his car. "What happened?"

"I don't know exactly, officer. I was just sitting stationary at the lights, watching some people cross, those women over there..."Jonathan pointed, "and suddenly I heard a loud noise and felt a push from behind as the car behind hit me. He obviously wasn't paying attention and drove straight into me. I can't believe he didn't see me. I was sitting there for at least a minute before he drove into me..."

The police officer and Jonathan came to where the two bumpers of the cars were almost touching each other.

"Okay," she said reaching for a black electronic pad in her jacket, "let me take a few particulars, and I'll help you swap insurance details."

"Are you the owner of the car that drove into the back of this gentleman?" the police officer asked, switching on the electronic device, extracting the stylus from the pouch on its side, tapping the keyboard a few times, and then looking up at the tall man who had been driving the other car.

"Oh... _shit_..." Jonathan heard her say under her breath as she looked up at the man. "May I ask, sir, what is your name?"

The man with the blue eyes scowled back at her.

"Thomas," he replied. "Thomas McNunn."

Chapter 7

Willowbrae Road

Edinburgh

Wednesday 7.30 p.m.

"Mr Thomas McNunn?" the woman police officer repeated, nervously.

"Yes. Like I just said. I'm Thomas McNunn."

The police officer seemed a little flustered, and Jonathan caught her glancing over at the other officer who by now had held up the traffic on the main road and was taking it in turns to let cars from either side pass around the accident at the traffic lights.

"Excuse me a second," she muttered, and walked away towards her partner.

Jonathan watched her talk to him briefly. The male officer looked over at them both, staring for a few moments at the tall man, then exchanging a few more words with the woman PC.

She nodded, adjusted her hat, and started back over towards them, climbing carefully through the gap between the two bumpers.

"Are either of you hurt at all? Would you like me to call an ambulance?"

Jonathan thought for a moment.

"I don't think I need an ambulance, but I think I've hurt my neck, and my chest hurts a little."

The police officer looked at him quite sternly.

"Would you like me to call an ambulance?"

Jonathan felt under pressure. He didn't want to make a fuss. His chest hurt, but it had been hurting a little for the past few days, so it probably wasn't truthfully anything to do with the accident. His neck did hurt, and his shoulders, but he could walk and calling an ambulance would probably be a bit over the top.

"No..." he started to reply. "No. I think I'll be okay."

"And you, sir?" she asked the tall man.

"I'm fine."

"Ok, good." she started. "Then I'll just confirm a few details which you can also exchange with each other, and then we can all get on our way. Okay?"

"Yes, thanks. But could you please take a photograph or something, and give me your details so that I can ask you to be a witness for me?" Jonathan asked.

The woman police officer looked up at the man who had driven into Jonathan - Mr McNunn - and then across at Jonathan.

"I can give you a reference number when I'm finished, but I won't be able to act as a witness. That's now a matter for you to both work out with your insurance companies. As no one has been badly injured, it's now an insurance matter, not a police matter."

"But you're here now. You can see that I'm not to blame. Unfortunately, this gentleman drove into the rear of my car whilst I was stationary at the red lights. It's obviously his fault, and not my mine. If possible, officer, I'd just like you to be able to state that to my insurance company, if you could, please?"

"Like I said, sir, this is now really a matter for your insurance companies, and I'll repeat that since no one is injured and requires medical assistance, we can shortly all get on our way. Now please, can you give me your names and addresses..."

A little shaken, and slightly frustrated by the unhelpfulness of the police officer, Jonathan started to rattle off his personal details in reply to the police officer's question.

When her attention finally turned away from him and passed over to the other driver, Jonathan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his little-notebook. As the man, Thomas McNunn, recited his own details to the officer, Jonathan fought with his shaking fingers and tried to copy as many of the details down himself.

He got his name, number plate, telephone number, address, make of car, and the name of the other driver's insurance company: it was Swiss Insurance - they were both insured with the same company.

"Okay," the woman officer spoke aloud, engrossing herself in the screen on her little hand-held terminal, and seemingly avoiding both their gazes, "I can confirm that you are both who you say you are, and that your details are correct. Your vehicles are both insured and taxed, and you now both have each other's details..., yes? Good. Mr Stuart, is your car safe to drive? Will you be able to make it home safely?"

Jonathan seemed a little perplexed by the question.

"I don't know if it's safe to drive... What do you think? Can I drive it?"

The officer looked at Jonathan, said nothing, then bent down and examined what was left of the rear bumper.

"Yes, if it drives okay, then it's okay to drive straight home or to a local garage. I don't think this would pass an MOT as it is, so I suggest you take it to a garage as soon as you can and get it looked at properly. You should get it fixed as soon as possible. I don't think your insurance will be valid any more until you do. But only your garage can really tell you if it's safe to drive, or not."

Jonathan was even more confused.

"So, can I drive it now or not?"

"Like I said. Now, yes. To get home or to the garage, but probably not after that. You need to get it made roadworthy."

She turned to the tall man, the other driver.

"Same goes for you, Mr McNunn. Although it looks like you got off more lightly than Mr Stuart."

Jonathan stood there fiddling with his notebook. His hands were still shaking, and he started coughing again. He knew there was something more he wanted to ask the PC, if he could only calm down enough to remember what it was.

"Excuse me... Miss, officer...Can you give me that reference number or something else, so that I can prove to the insurance company that you were here?"

The police officer almost scowled at him.

"Certainly, sir... One moment please."

She looked at her tablet again, tapped it a few times with the stylus, and then read him out a string of letters and numbers.

"Just quote that." She said. "Now, if you are both feeling well enough to drive off, let's see if we can clear the junction. This is the main road into Edinburgh here, and I'm afraid the traffic is probably backed up all the way down to London by now!"

She stood in the middle of the road, glaring at them and opening her hands up in a gesture which basically instructed them both to get back in the cars and get on with their lives.

The tall man, Mr McNunn, smiled at the officer and walked back to his BMW and got in.

Jonathan stood there for a moment longer, staring at the damage the man had done to his car, and wondering if there was perhaps more that he should be doing just now.

Was that it?

Was that all?

A few cars further down the queue started beeping their horns. Feeling under pressure and still shaking, he coughed a few times to clear his throat, and then turned and walked back to the front of his car.

Starting the engine, he waited for the lights to change to green, then let go of the handbrake and slowly started away from the lights.

Behind him he could hear his car protesting, and what was left of the bumper dragging along the ground.

A few hundred metres further along the road, he turned into the first road on his left, pulled over and came to a stop.

Closing his eyes, he thought of Sally, took several deep breaths and tried to calm down.

Chapter 8

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Thursday

10.31 a.m.

"Swiss Insurance, good morning, how can I help you?" Anand said automatically, answering his first call of the morning. It was more of a statement rather than a question, an automatic reaction to the light that flashed on his phone and indicated that a call had been queued up for him.

The UK had just come online. They were open for business.

"Hello... Is that Swiss Insurance?" A man's voice. Nervous. They were all either nervous or angry. The angry ones were the best. The nervous ones were painful. Sometimes embarrassing.

"Yes, sir. It is. And how can I help you this morning?" he repeated.

"I...I...," the man began, stumbling over his words. "I had an accident last night. It was too late to report it by the time I got home, but I'm calling first thing this morning."

"An accident?" Anand enquired. Challenging him. With just a little edge in his voice that might put the caller off balance.

"Yes, I'm sorry. It wasn't my fault. Someone drove into me from behind, whilst I was stationary at the lights."

"Oh dear. _I'm sorry_ to hear that. Did you get their details?"

"Yes. A police officer attended the scene, and I've got a police reference number too." The man was speaking better now. Less scared. "I'm sorry, I don't know what to do. My wife would have known, but she's dead, you see."

Anand perked up.

"Dead? She was killed in the accident?" he asked quickly. This would be his first fatality that month. Less boring. Maybe even interesting.

"Dead? Sally? Yes, but not because of the accident. She died of cancer several years ago... She would've known what to do, you see. She took care of all the difficult paperwork. What do I do?"

"Don't worry, sir. That's why we're here. _We're here to help you_." Another statement. One of the very first lines that Anand had been forced to master, to say perfectly with just the right amount of concern and sympathy to fool the caller into thinking that they really cared.

It never failed.

"Oh, wonderful. Thank you." The man sounded relieved.

"Can I have your policy number? Do you have it with you?"

"Oh yes... yes I do."

Anand typed the letters and number the man gave him into one of the little boxes on the computer screen. "... Oscar Yankee Delta? Was that correct?" he repeated the policy number back to the man.

"Yes."

"Mr Jonathan Stuart?"

"Yes."

"Could you please confirm a few more personal details for me?"

"Certainly."

Anand checked off the man's name, address, postcode and age against the details the Customer Relationship software package presented to him on screen. They all matched.

"Thank you, Mr Stuart. So how can I help you?" Anand asked.

"I want to report an accident."

" _I'm sorry_ to hear that. Can you tell me please what happened?"

The man spent the next ten minutes explaining in detail what had happened, assuming that Anand was recording most of what was being said. He wasn't. In fact, he briefly flicked to another screen and checked out the cricket scores whilst the man was speaking, only half-listening to what he was saying.

"Oh dear, it sounds like you've had a terrible time. Thank you for explaining that to me, Mr Stuart."

"So, what happens now?"

"Mr Stuart, my name is David Black. I'll be your incident manager from now on. At the end of the call I'll give you my extension number, and if you need to speak to me at any time, please call and ask for me. I'm here most days."

"David? Are you English?"

"Yes, sir. I'm in England in the Birmingham call centre."

"Excellent. I much prefer to speak to someone local. For a moment, I was worried that I'd be put through to a call centre in India or something."

Anand laughed. Just the right amount. Just like he'd been taught.

"No, sir. Don't worry. I'm English through and through. _And I'm here to help you..."_

"Good. That's a relief. So, what happens now? Oh, I've asked that already. I'm sorry. I've never had an accident before you see. This is my first one."

"Don't worry, sir. It'll all be okay. Now, I'm going to send you a form at the email address you gave me. May I ask you to fill it in, and write down in as much detail as possible, exactly what happened. Include the police reference number and try to answer all the questions as accurately as possible."

"A form? Oh... I thought you'd been doing that for me when I just told you everything just now."

"Thank you, sir. Yes, I did take some notes, and I captured all the main points, but we'll need to get a statement from you, too, which you can sign and send back to us."

"If I must."

"I can see from your file that you are seventy-four sir, may I ask, are you okay with emails, and filling forms in on a computer?"

"Absolutely. I was a computer programmer until twenty years ago. Before I retired. Fortran, Basic, and C++, and I can still do some coding today. It's still a bit of a hobby of mine. Don't worry, I know my way around computers okay. That won't be a problem."

"Excellent. So, where is your car just now?"

"In the street behind my house. The police officer said it's probably not safe to drive."

"I can see from your details that you're entitled to a replacement car, sir. For up to twenty-eight days. Would you like me to arrange one for you?"

"Can I think about that? I definitely need a car, and I can't drive mine, but I'm not too sure if I should make a claim on the insurance or not. Perhaps it'd be cheaper for me to get the car fixed locally and not make a claim? The car's very old."

"You've had it since 1996?"

"Yes. Since new."

"You must've looked after it well, Mr Stuart?"

"It's my pride and joy. It's never broken down, or given me any problems. It sailed through its MOT last month. Nothing wrong with it at all." Anand could hear the pride in the man's voice. "Until now, that is. Now I can't drive it..."

"Well, I think we should get it inspected for you, and see how bad the damage is. Shall I arrange for someone to come and collect it and take it to a local garage to have the damage assessed?"

"I don't know... "Mr Stuart hesitated.

"Don't worry, Mr Stuart," Anand immediately started to reassure him. Word for word, in accordance with his training. "Let's just get the damage assessed and see if we can fix it for you?"

"Do you think you'll be able to fix it?"

"Hopefully, if it's just the bumper and nothing else we can't see. Sometimes, the damage is not just superficial. When you take a look inside the bonnet, for example, you may find that the crumple zone has been compromised. Not always, but we do need to check that out."

"And once we know, I can then decide whether to make a claim? I mean, I'm not sure yet. The last thing I want to happen is to lose the car. I need the car. I can't afford to buy another one."

"I understand, sir. _Honestly_." Anand lied. He was so good at this now that he could talk and lie whilst thinking of something else completely. Like the cricket.

"So, you'll come and get the car, have a look at it, and then once we know what the damage is, I can decide _then_ whether to make a claim or not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

"Well, that's it for now. You'll get a call very shortly from Porty Motors, the local garage we use, and they'll arrange to come and pick it up from you."

"Excellent, thanks for your help."

"No problem. It's our pleasure. Mr Stuart, can I ask you a question? I can't help but notice that you're in Edinburgh. The home town of Hibernian Football Club?"

"The Hibs? Yes. Why? Are you a fan?"

"A big fan. I've never seen them play live, but it's always been my dream to come and watch them in their home stadium..."

"Easter Road?"

"Yes. Sorry, it's been a while. It was on the tip of my tongue."

"Have you ever been up to Scotland?"

"No. Not yet."

"Well, you really should. It's beautiful. It's an easy train ride up from Birmingham. Not that long, and if you book a saver in advance, it's cheap as well. You should come."

"I'd love to. One day."

"Well, how about if you come up when my car is fixed, I can pick you up from the station and I'll take you to a match. It's probably been ten years since the last time I went to one. But when Sally fell ill, I couldn't leave her alone, and when she died, I just never thought about it again."

"Sally?"

"My wife."

"Oh, I can see that you still have a Mrs Sally Stuart down on your insurance policy. Would you like me to take her off for you?"

"Take her off?" Mr Stuart asked, a hesitancy immediately returning to his voice. "No..., no, I don't think that's a good idea. She loved to drive."

"Are you sure? I don't have to. I can leave her there if you wish."

"Please. If you can."

The man hesitated again.

"Can I just say something, please David. Thanks for your help. I was quite nervous, actually, probably a little scared about calling you. But you've really helped. I was worried you'd automatically write the car off, but now I know you won't, I feel much better. I'm serious about the offer to take you to the football. It's the least I can do for you helping me."

"Thanks. I'd love to go! But let's get your car fixed first. And as soon as possible. Please check your email in a few hours and fill in the form and send it back to me. As soon as I've checked it, and we hear back from the garage, we can talk again."

"I look forward to it. And to getting the car fixed!"

" _No problem, sir. We're here to help_!"

Chapter 9

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Thursday

12.02 p.m.

"Swiss Insurance, good morning, how can I help you?" Anand repeated for the umpteenth time that morning. The same false promise he had been repeating for months. Day in day out.

When he had started the job, he had been a caring, kind person. Now he didn't feel anything when people poured their hearts out to him, sometimes literally begging for his help. On the face of it, a car was just a car. Anand had never owned a car, and maybe never would, but he had swiftly come to realise that for many people a car was the centre of their lives: it took them to work, to buy food, to places of entertainment, on holidays, to see loved ones, to hospitals, marriages, christenings, and funerals. People fell in love with their cars. For some, it was not the actual car, but rather the life the car enabled or facilitated. However, almost everyone came to depend on their cars and for the majority who couldn't buy one whenever they wanted, having a car, _their_ car, the same one they had been driving and trusting and caring for over all the years, was incredibly important.

When, out of the blue, they were then involved in an accident, and the very existence of that car was threatened, some lives would begin to fall apart. People fought hard to keep what they had. For years they had paid their insurance company to protect them, and keep them safe, and they lived securely in the promise and the big words written on the front of their insurance policies which made it sound as if, should the worst happen, the insurance company would be their friend and make everything right again.

Little did they realise the truth. Until too late.

It was called 'the small print'.

It was those tiny little words which few if any ever read before an accident, which quite clearly heralded the truth of the disaster that would befall most people when they became the innocent parties to a calamity not of their own making.

For, far from trying to help, the insurance companies made money by helping themselves.

First and foremost.

The customer last.

"I'm so sorry, sir/madam. However, if you read the small print..."

Anand had little choice but to continue in his job, his 'career', as the manager described it during motivational talks when they discussed the number of calls that had been answered each day; it was never about how many customers had been _helped_ , just how many calls had been answered.

His family needed the money, and where they lived, there was little chance of any other job that paid so well. As the months drifted past, Anand had come to realise just how fortunate he had been while living in England and studying at the university. He knew he should give up the dream, in fact he had done, for a while, but now it was coming back. One day, please, one day Anand would like to go back to the university, finish his degree, and then get a really good, well-paid job.

He was sick of the lying and the cheating and the smarmy voice and indifference that he had to maintain hour after hour. Sick of it.

At the end of each day, he couldn't stand to look at himself in the mirror.

The truth was, Anand had started to hate himself.

If only he could feel good about himself again. If only he could really HELP someone instead of playing the company game and ruining customer's lives.

When lunch time came, as he sat by himself in the shade under the trees on the grass outside the call centre, he thought of the man who had called him that morning and invited him to see Hibernian play a game of football in Edinburgh.

Wow!

Imagine that.

Imagine seeing them for real. Playing at ... Easter Road? Yes! Imagine being there, finally, after all those years!

He thought of the man. He was sad and lonely. Yet, although he was similar to many of the people who rang the call centre looking for help and guidance, even in the midst of the personal stress the man had been going through, he had still shown kindness to Anand.

The old man had shamed Anand.

Heaped burning coals upon his head.

Anand swallowed hard.

There was something else.

The man was lonely. It sounded as if he had nothing else, or nobody else in the world.

Apart from his car.

Which Anand was going to take away from him and destroy in the same, classic manoeuvre that was played out by everyone in the call centre day after day.

Doing their job.

Making their company rich.

Destroying the lives of those who trusted them.

Yes, the man was lonely.

Like Anand.

Since returning to India to be with his family, and the responsibility that was immediately placed upon his small shoulders, Anand had never felt so lonely.

As he finished his curry, and wiped the inside of his bowl clean with the remnants of his naan, a thought popped into Anand's mind.

"Could he and the man become friends? Would they one day actually see 'the Hibs' play together?"

Anand smiled.

It was a nice thought.

A silly, stupid thought.

But a nice thought all the same.

\-------------------------

3 p.m.

Jonathan Stuart sat on the bed in his room, listening to the clock tick on the side table.

He loved the sound of it, and found that just now, it helped him to relax.

His eyes were closed, and he let the passing seconds wash over him.

Jonathan often sat there listening to the clock.

The clock was Sally's, a wonderful retirement gift that she had received from the school where she had taught for twenty years. Sally had dedicated her life to her children, thousands of whom had passed through her classroom and benefited from her kind heart, knowledge and warmth.

She had cared for them all.

Sadly, their own child had died in her womb, and there had never been another one. Something about the way the womb had been damaged.

Despite their loss, their lives had never been empty.

Every moment had been full. Every second of every minute of every hour had been a joy spent in her company. They had seldom ever rowed and had rarely been apart.

All their friends had always commented to him how lucky they were, how lucky Jonathan was, and he knew that many of the men who had commented on it, had secretly been in love with Sally. It was hard not to be.

Then one day she was gone.

Leaving behind emptiness and vacant days, where as much as Sally had brightened every moment with her presence, her absence made everything twice as dark.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

When the little bell inside the brass casing finally struck three small, independent chimes, Jonathan stood up.

He was already dressed in his suit for the appointment with the doctor at 6 p.m. and had been since eleven o'clock that morning.

However, he had promised himself that upon the hour he would pick up the phone in the hallway and call the mobile number of the man who had driven into the back of his car.

It had taken him a long, long time to fall asleep the night before, despite having the windows open and listening to the crashing of the waves on the beach outside.

Normally, even after all the years they had lived on the promenade, the hypnotic pulsing of the waves crashing on the beach and then being sucked back out to sea, would quickly lull him into sleep. Unfortunately, Jonathan had got himself so worked up from the stress of the accident that nothing could calm him down.

On top of all the stress of having to call the insurance company, and the paperwork he had to complete, he felt violated.

Jonathan had never been mugged, or had his house broken into, but there was something about having an accident that was deeply personal. His safety had been attacked, his security had been removed. From now on, he would be forced to view every other car on the road with suspicion. And worry.

Perhaps he had been mugged after all: someone had attacked him from behind and stolen from him the innocent joy of driving, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never get it back again.

Worst of all though, was the thought that he would lose the car.

Jonathan couldn't afford to buy another car. Even if he did have the money, Jonathan didn't know _how_ to buy a car. Where would you go? How much would one cost? What type should he buy?

In the wee small hours of the night, he had started to fret that he had done the wrong thing. Perhaps he should not have reported the incident. To his untrained eye, it looked as if only the bumper of the car had received any significant damage. Surely it would only cost a few hundred pounds to fix? He could afford that much.

There was also a garage at the top of the road. He passed it whenever he walked to the Coop to buy a pint of milk.

Surely, they could fix the car for him?

After hours of worrying, two things had helped him to find some modicum of peace: first, the nice man from the insurance company that he had spoken with on the phone had really helped and had assured him that once he had the information on how much the official repairs would cost, Jonathan could decide whether formally to make a claim or not.

Second, Jonathan had decided to pluck up the courage and call the man who had caused all this grief. Jonathan would suggest that they both desist from making any claims on their insurance, and that instead, since the other man was clearly to blame, that he volunteer to give Jonathan say, £150, and then Jonathan would get the car fixed privately. That way, the other man's 'no claim bonus' would not be affected, and both parties would end up better off. The insurance companies need no longer be involved.

This decision had allowed Jonathan to find some rest throughout the rest of the night, but once the dawn had come, the sun's rays had melted the assurance the decision had given him, and he had once more started to worry.

What would the other man say?

Would he agree?

Would he be friendly or angry?

"Oh dear, ..."Jonathan muttered to himself for the hundredth time that day.

Still, Jonathan had never been a procrastinator. Any success which he had enjoyed during his life had come about because he always faced his problems, dealt with them and moved on.

It had always been the best policy up till now, and Jonathan knew it would remain so.

Taking a sip of cold water from the glass, and placing it gently on the sideboard beside the phone, he picked up the receiver and began to dial the number that was written down on the piece of paper that rested beside it.

The phone rang.

Jonathan counted the number of times it rang at the other end. He had promised himself that if it wasn't picked up by the time it rang ten times, he would hang up.

"Hello?" a man's voice, deep and powerful, suddenly caught him unawares at the other end just as he got to 'seven'.

"Hello," Jonathan replied, then coughed several times. The coughing was beginning to irritate him. Being nervous was bad enough. "Hello, this is Jonathan Stuart. Is that Mr Thomas McNunn?"

"Yes. Who else would it be? Who are you then?"

"I'm the driver of the car you hit yesterday afternoon in Willowbrae Road."

"And? How can I help you?"

"Well, you see," cough, cough, "I was wondering, if perhaps it might be a good idea if we didn't go through the insurance companies, and we dealt with this privately?"

"What do you mean? What are you suggesting?"

The man didn't seem to be very friendly. Perhaps this was not a very good idea after all.

"Well, perhaps, the simplest thing would be if you were to offer to pay me to have the bumper fixed privately. If we did it privately, then it would be cheaper than going through the insurance company, and your no-claims bonus wouldn't be affected."

"Mr Stuart, I'm all for giving people as many choices as possible in everything that happens, but perhaps you should have thought about all the options before you got the bloody police involved? What the fuck did you do that for? Do you know how much grief you could have caused me? You were just thinking about yourself, weren't you!"

Jonathan took a deep breath. He hadn't been expecting such a reaction.

"No,... sorry, I don't understand. I didn't mean to cause you any problems. I just wanted to have a witness for the insurance company..."

"I thought you said, you didn't want the insurance company involved?"

"Yes, no... well, yes that's what I'm thinking now, but yesterday when you caused the accident I was very shaken and upset... I didn't know what..."

"I caused the accident? You're saying that I caused the accident? You've got a cheek."

"Well, yes, obviously... Mr McNunn."

"Listen, Mr Stuart. None of this is my problem. Okay? You started this, so now you finish it. Talk to your insurance company. Get them to fix your bloody car for you. That's what you pay your premiums for. That's what I pay mine for. It's their problem not mine. Goodbye. And don't call this number again. It's private. Do you understand?"

Suddenly, the line went dead.

Shaking, Jonathan gently put the receiver back on its cradle and stepped back from the phone.

For a few moments he stared at the ivory white effect telephone, his head ringing with the man's words.

Slowly, Jonathan walked back through to his bedroom and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Oh dear..." he whispered to himself, then coughed several times.

His chest started to hurt, and for a few moments he wondered if he was about to have a heart attack, but then the pain abated.

Jonathan closed his eyes.

He took several long, deep, slow breaths and listened carefully to the sound of time passing.

Tick. Tick.Tick.

If only Sally was still here.

Chapter 10

Starbucks Coffee

Costorphine

Edinburgh

Thursday

4 p.m.

Campbell McKenzie opened the door to the Starbucks and let DI Danielle Wessex pass through the door before him: the age of chivalry and good manners was not yet dead, and so long as he remained alive, he would keep it going.

As they walked towards the rear of the shop, Tommy McNunn looked up from his newspaper, and seeing them approach, clicked a finger instructing his two heavies to let them pass, but prevent anyone else from following.

Campbell slipped into the seat opposite McNunn, with Wessex remaining standing beside his left shoulder.

"Can I get you both a coffee? Or something else to drink?" McNunn offered.

"Tommy, you know we can't accept freebies from suspects, but thanks for the offer." McKenzie turned to Wessex, and handed her a tenner from his wallet. "A Latte for me, please, and whatever you'd like for yourself?"

DI Wessex nodded, took the money, and walked towards the serving counter.

Campbell shuffled a little closer and rested his hands on the table.

"So, McKenzie. What brings you here this afternoon, disturbing my private time? You know how much I value my coffee in the afternoon. It's the only chance I get to sit down and switch my brain off for a few moments. And, I should warn you, I'm due at my gym in thirty minutes. I've an appointment with the club physio and I can't miss it. I think I pulled a muscle playing golf this morning."

"Don't worry. I won't keep you. I just wanted to have a few words in private. Away from the voice-recorder and the station."

"About what?"

"About Urqhart."

"I got the message yesterday. You made yourself very clear. But you're wrong, as usual. I don't have anything to do with that man's death. As well you know it."

"Come on, Tommy. You and I know each other too well for such banal meaningless statements. We go way back." McKenzie smiled, and then looked over his shoulder towards Wessex at the counter before continuing. "The thing is, I just wanted to give you the chance to perhaps say anything you may want to, off the record. If there's something you know about Urquhart's death, then now would be a good time to say it."

McNunn folded the paper he was reading in half, creased it with one hand and then laid it on the table.

"McKenzie, I know you want to pin this on me. In fact, I know you want to pin everything on me. And I know that you'll never stop trying to pin everything on me until one of us leaves town, dies, or wins the lottery and doesn't give a shit anymore. You and I have been dancing around the flame for the past twenty years. I've watched all your promotions, and you've watched my businesses flourish. Never, not once, have you managed to pin anything on me, and take it from me, you never will. I'm a professional at what I do, and so are you. Which is why we both respect each other. So, I'm a little surprised when you immediately jump to conclusions and start to associate me with the dead man who is lying in the city morgue. Especially, when, if you were to investigate a little wider afield, you may find that other parties were particularly interested in that little shit."

McKenzie noted the slight intonation on the words 'little shit' and the way they were said a shade faster than the others in an almost monotone sentence.

"Like who, for instance?"

"You think I'm going to say a name? Don't be silly, McKenzie. I'm no snitch."

"But you're a businessman. Or so you claim. And if you know who did this, and it would be economically beneficial if someone else was to be found guilty of Urqhart's murder, I know you wouldn't hesitate to drop a clue. That's not grassing anyone up. It's just business."

McNunn raised his eyebrows.

"Your coffee's here."

Campbell turned around, reached up and took the proffered Latte from Wessex. He nodded, and Wessex walked back towards the counter, standing close to McNunn's men.

Campbell took a sip, ripped open the sugar sachet that Wessex had handed him, and added it into his drink, stirring it slowly with the usual little wooden stick.

"Well?" he asked, then went silent, leaving a pregnant pause in the conversation.

McNunn looked at his watch, and then over at his two men, both distractions designed to mask his thoughts.

"Ivor notion that if you look hard enough, you'll always find the truth." McNunn said quietly.

Campbell nodded.

"My thoughts exactly. Well, thank you for your time, Tommy. Hopefully, the next time we see each other it will be in celebration of a more joyous occasion."

"Like what?" McNunn asked as McKenzie stood up from the table.

"Well, like when you make a mistake and we finally manage to arrest you for something. And lock you up?"

Tommy laughed.

"I wouldn't hold your breath." He replied.

"I won't."

McKenzie smiled and turned to leave, nodding at Wessex.

"Your coffee?" McNunn reminded him.

"It's too hot. And too sweet." McKenzie replied, turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving the coffee behind on the table.

McNunn watched them leave, indicating with a finger that one of his men should follow them out and make sure they had gone.

A moment later he reappeared.

"They're gone, boss." The man replied.

Standing up, McNunn took a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and a pair of plastic gloves. Putting on the gloves and sliding around the table, he picked up the coffee cup that McKenzie had left behind and carried it with him to the toilets.

When he got there, he emptied the coffee into the bowl and dropped the cup into the plastic bag, sealing it closed. Taking off the gloves, he dropped them into the paper towel bin and walked back to his table, handing the bag with the cup to one of his men.

Then he picked up his paper and carried on reading.

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

5.00 p.m.

The operations room being used for Operation 'Queens', so called because the body had been found in the Queen's Park, was in the basement of St Leonards. It still smelt of damp, despite the new paint that had been applied only three months before. There was no natural light, but it was large, its main redeeming feature.

Ten CID officers had now been assigned to the case, and enquiries were proceeding well.

DCI McKenzie stood up at the front of the room, welcomed everyone to their fourth meeting so far, did a swift recap of the situation and what was already known and then threw the floor open to anyone who had recent developments that afternoon.

Detective Sergeant McCrae was the first to volunteer.

"After getting the warrants signed off last night, I presented them to the bank this morning and they replied quickly, presenting me with some very interesting information earlier this afternoon, which included all the bank accounts they were aware of that Urqhart had access to. They included one that his wife was apparently not aware of, which had been opened almost six years ago. Currently it has £50,000 in it, but over the past few years the total money flowing into the account before being transferred out to other locations, totals £485,000. It includes £300,000 which came in in two separate transfers of £150,000 each in January this year. The money was promptly transferred out. We don't yet have any information of where the money came from or where it went to. We'll need more paperwork to authorise further enquiries, and perhaps some cooperation from other departments. I visited Mrs Urqhart this afternoon, and she was visibly shocked by what I showed her. I believe her when she says that she had no knowledge of the money."

"Great work." McKenzie applauded the man. "Try to get the paperwork in order as soon as you can, and I'll help you get all the other signatures you need. Finding where the money came from, and where it went will obviously be key. Next?"

Detective Constable Johnstone stood up.

"I was just on the phone to the forensics department. The latest news from them is that they've found a patch of residue on Urqhart's skin which mostly likely comes from the adhesive on the duct tape that was wrapped around his wrists. They've found a small hair stuck in the residue, which they don't think is Urqhart's. It's too dark. They've just sent it off for analysis and DNA testing. They've also confirmed the obvious, that he was killed by the fall, and have identified a patch of ground on the edge of the path where the body mostly likely first hit after falling from the clifftop, before bouncing slightly, falling forward and slipping over the edge and rolling down the scree. Apparently, they surmise that his feet hit the ground first, which indicates that he jumped and was probably not pushed. They've seen quite a few jumpers, and the pattern looks very similar to what they would expect. All apart from the cut to the ear where a slight chunk was sliced out. The forensic team are now scouring the ground on top of the cliff above the fall area to see if they can find anything else: footsteps, pieces of duct tape, signs of a scuffle. Anything."

"Good. Thanks. Also great news. Has anyone got anything from door-to-door in the student halls of residence? Did any students report seeing anything unusual? Or from the interviews with the dog walkers who were seen out late last night?"

Detective Sergeant Wilson stood up. "Several of us spent the day at Pollock Halls of Residence with some uniformed officers. None of the students we spoke to saw anything untoward. We put up some posters and left our contact numbers. We're going back tonight and tomorrow."

"Good. See what you can find."

Campbell looked across at the officer standing up at the front beside him who was busy capturing what was being said and making some notes on a white board. The man nodded back, and Campbell continued.

"Does anyone have any thoughts on motives? Who might be responsible? New avenues of enquiries?" Campbell asked, opening up the floor. As an officer and leader he was well-liked. He never presumed that his own ideas were better than others and was always willing to take input and suggestions from everyone on a case.

DI Wessex stood up. She was standing at the side of the room on the left.

"Given that we believe he was involved with Thomas McNunn, is there a possibility that he was involved with others? Should we be also talking to other prominent leaders of the Edinburgh crime scene?"

"The answer to that question is yes. And I'll be coordinating that with some of you over the next few days. Good thought."

Although Campbell hadn't yet discussed his conversation with McNunn with Wessex, she'd hit the nail on the head. As usual.

McNunn's comment: 'Ivor notion that if you look hard enough, you'll always find the truth.' was not a simple throw away statement. He was in fact making a reference to one of the other major crime bosses in Scotland, Ivor Petrovsky, an immigrant from Poland who had quickly risen up the crime ladder and established his presence in Scotland. He was a dangerous man, much hated, feared, and in direct competition with McNunn.

During the rest of the meeting they covered a number of other avenues of enquiry that had been started the day before, and DI McKenzie gave some directions as to activities for the next few days.

Afterwards, he sat himself in his office with a fresh coffee from the canteen and started to think about Ivor Petrovsky.

Visiting him would not be such a cordial affair.

The man was an animal.

He looked like a pit-bull, behaved liked a pit-bull, and smelt like a pit-bull.

Over the years, Campbell had realised that whether he liked it or not, he had to admit that he held some respect for many of the big crime bosses, for one reason or another.

Ivor Petrovsky was different.

Campbell detested the man. He was scum and the world would be a far, better place without him.

Yes, he would have to pay him a visit soon.

Chapter 11

Royal Infirmary Hospital

Edinburgh

Thursday

5.50 p.m.

Jonathan Stuart stepped out of the taxi, carefully holding the support bar on the door just to make sure he didn't fall out. He was getting old, and he recognised that he needed to be more careful when doing certain things.

He paid the taxi-driver and gave him a two-pound tip, about a quarter of the fare. Sally had always felt that they should tip taxi-drivers and had made a lifetime habit of it. Now Jonathan carried on that tradition for her.

Walking into the entrance, he brushed down his suit, adjusted his tie, and presented himself at reception.

As he waited for the receptionist to finish dealing with the old-lady in front of him, he coughed a few times, and wiped his mouth, noticing again the small stain of fresh red blood that he often had on his handkerchief when he did so.

It concerned him, a little, but deep down he knew that he would be fine. He'd been a hypochondriac for many, many years, and since Sally had died, he'd turned professional! But there was never really anything seriously wrong with him, and that wasn't about to change now.

He knew that the visit with the consultant was really nothing more than a formality. Dr Mitchell had been forced to arrange it because Jonathan had been to see him about it, and Dr Mitchell was a very professional doctor. Or, was it something else that Jonathan had been to see Dr Mitchell about?

Jonathan shook his head. He couldn't quite remember.

Never mind. It was all going to be okay.

It had been a few months since he'd last been in the Royal Infirmary...Actually, no, it was probably more like three years,... but it all looked very, very different since the last time he had been here.

He'd been ready to come for hours, excited about seeing something different and meeting new people.

It was something to do.

"Hello, can I help you?" the receptionist turned her attention to Jonathan.

"Hello, my name is Jonathan Stuart. I've been sent up to see Doctor Gupta by my doctor, Dr Mitchell. My appointment is at six o'clock." Jonathan proudly announced, standing tall, and trying to make a good impression. As the woman smiled at him and then looked away at the computer terminal, he pushed his glasses up his nose, and tried to quietly cough and clear his throat.

"Dr Gupta? Oh, I'm sorry. He's left for the day now. His last appointment was at 5.30 p.m. And it says on the system that your appointment was at 5 p.m. Not 6 p.m.?" the woman said, looking up again at Jonathan.

Nervously he pushed his glasses back up to the top of his nose.

"5 p.m.? Are you sure? I was certain that Dr Mitchell said six o'clock. He never makes a mistake like that. Can you check again?"

"Certainly, " the woman said, humouring him. She had already checked it twice.

"I'm sorry. There seems to have been some mistake somewhere. I'll tell you what, would you like me to see if there are any cancellations? I can make you a priority and arrange another appointment for you as soon as possible?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yes, please."

He didn't know what else to say, really, and the woman seemed very nice.

"Another appointment, please. As soon as is possible."

The woman smiled back.

"There, how about in four days, at ten o'clock? It's a Monday morning, and there's a cancellation that you can have if you wish? Can you make that, or are you busy?"

"Busy?" Jonathan thought about it for a second. "No, that would be fine. Just perfect. In fact, I'll look forward to it. Thank you very much for your help."

The receptionist scribbled the details of the appointment down on a card and handed it to Jonathan.

Walking outside to the car park, Jonathan walked around for a few moments, looking for his car, then remembered.

He walked back into reception, waited his turn, and asked the lady to call a taxi.

"It'll be about thirty minutes," she said. It's rush hour now."

"Not a problem," Jonathan replied, smiling. "I'm not rushing anywhere. I've got plenty of time. Plenty of time," then walked over to the waiting room, sat down and closed his eyes.

\-------------------------

Portobello,

Edinburgh

7.20 p.m.

After waiting patiently slightly more than the promised half-an-hour, Jonathan finally made it home, tired, disappointed and a little anxious.

A man was standing outside his home beside his damaged car, a clipboard in hand, and a large pickup truck blocking the street beside him.

As Jonathan paid the taxi-driver, the man approached him.

"Excuse me, but I was looking for Mr Stuart, who lives at No. 32?"

"That's me," Jonathan answered, putting his wallet back in his pocket, and nervously adjusting his glasses.

"I was just about to leave. I've been waiting for a while. I've come to pick up your car and take it to the garage."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought someone was going to call me first to arrange it?"

"Did the office not call you? I'm sorry, pal. Anyway, you're here now. If you've got the key for your car, we can get it loaded for you."

Jonathan stood at the side of the road, looking first at the big truck, and then over at his car.

"Can I just call the insurance company and speak to them first?" Jonathan asked.

The man seemed a little agitated.

"If you want, pal, but I can't wait. I'll have to go without your car. I'm already late. I should've packed up ages ago. I'm meeting a few pals tonight. Don't get me wrong mate, you can call them if you want, but if you do, I probably won't be back till early next week. We're chock-a-block for the next few days."

"Oh, right..." Jonathan stood there, not moving, coughing occasionally, his right hand playing nervously with the watch on his wrist.

The man stepped forward and offered him the clip-board and the pen.

"If you want to, you can sign right there, and there, and I'll take the car now. It's up to you, pal. Those marks on that wee picture are where I've spotted a few wee other scrapes and dents on your car. If you just want to check 'em and then sign..."

"Oh, right... fine... So, sign, where... just here?" Jonathan responded, letting himself be guided to a decision, and not hearing everything that was being said to him.

Jonathan was feeling a little faint and quite strange.

"Yup, just there," the man said, pointing at the dotted line towards the bottom of the clipboard.

"Right... okay..." Jonathan muttered to himself, taking the clipboard and scribbling his signature on it.

"Great, brilliant. If you give me a few moments, I'll let the back down and then I can drive your car on. Have you got the key?"

"The key?"

"Yes, to your car..."

"Okay, yes..." Jonathan said, reaching into his pocket.

Pulling out the car key he looked at it in the palm of his hand, hesitating.

"Do I get a receipt?" he asked.

"Sure thing, pal. Here it is..." the man replied, ripping off the top copy of the form and handing it over to Jonathan. "Now, if you want to call the insurance company, you can let them know we have the car. If you want."

"Call the insurance company. Sure... yes, of course..."

Letting himself into his front door, Jonathan closed the door behind him and stood for a moment in the hallway.

Now he was all alone.

First, Sally had left him.

And now his car was gone too.

\-------------------------

Portobello,

Edinburgh

7.40 p.m.

Jonathan had only just sat down on his chair, looking out over the sweeping bay of the Firth of Forth, and had just taken a first sip of his tea, when the doorbell rang.

Which was unusual.

No one ever came to visit Jonathan.

Not anymore.

Putting his tea down gently on the table beside his chair, he made his way down the stairs, holding carefully on to the banister.

He was feeling much weaker tonight, and a little sick.

It must be the stress of the accident and having to deal with all the paperwork and the insurance company.

Unlocking the front door and opening it up, he was surprised to see the man standing on the other side.

"Dr Mitchell? This is a surprise! Are you okay?" he asked, before coughing several times.

"Can I come in, Jonathan? I hear you missed your appointment at the hospital tonight?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. There was a mix up. I'm not too sure how it happened, but I think I may have written down the wrong time. It must have been my fault."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but these things happen." Dr Mitchell reassured him. "Can I come in? I'd like to talk with you for a moment, if I may?"

"Absolutely. Sorry, I didn't mean to appear rude..." Jonathan replied, stepping backwards, opening the door wider and waving his hand to invite the doctor in.

The doctor followed Jonathan up the stairs into the lounge, and took the seat offered to him on the sofa, declining the offer of a tea, or something stronger.

"No, thank you. I have to drive home still, and Jenny probably has the dinner on the table already. But I wanted to stop by and have a quick wee chat first."

"About what?"

"Two things. Firstly, I found out that you'd missed your appointment, and I was concerned. Jonathan, it's really important that you see the specialist as soon as possible. You mustn't miss your next appointment."

"I won't," Jonathan replied, coughing, and suddenly feeling a little anxious. "Can I ask, why are you so worried about me? Is there something wrong with me?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Jonathan. There could be. Or maybe there isn't. I just want to get a second opinion. That's all. But it's important that we do. How are you feeling anyway? Is that cough of yours any worse? I've noticed that you've been coughing quite a lot since you let me in the door."

"I think it's a little worse. And to be honest, I'm feeling a little rough. A little sick. And very tired. But I think it's probably just all the business with the accident."

He went on to describe what had happened. The doctor looked concerned and promised that he would arrange a taxi to pick Jonathan up and get him to the hospital on time for the next appointment.

"Don't worry, Dr Mitchell. I can take care of it all. I'm not that old and decrepit yet. What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?"

"It was just about you. I couldn't help feeling that you and I needed to have a chat after you left the surgery the other day. We're friends and I honestly think that things have been going on long enough now. You need to move on, Jonathan. You need to stop feeling guilty for what happened with Sally, and to take hold of the life you have left and live it to the full."

He paused, looking out of the window and admiring the shining lights from the boats dotted around the bay, twinkling like little candles in the darkness.

"You have to let go of the guilt, Jonathan. Let it go."

"The guilt?"

"Yes. You see, I know what you did for Sally at the end. I know you helped her to die."

"What do you mean?"

"Jonathan. It's okay. I know you gave her the overdose. I know you killed her...sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that... I meant, I know that when the time came, you loved her so much that you couldn't let her suffer any more and that you did what you truly knew to be the right thing for her. You helped her to die, because you loved her, and I know she will have loved you even more in return."

Jonathan stared at the doctor, his face almost blank. Only the expression in his eyes gave away the thoughts rushing through his mind.

The doctor made no further attempt to speak. He knew the next words had to come from Jonathan.

Eventually they did.

"How long have you known?"

"Since I signed the death certificate."

"But how do you know? What makes you think that I did 'kill her?'"

"Because I'm a doctor. But that's not what's important here. I signed the death certificate, and we buried Sally. She found peace. And now it's time for you to find some peace too. You're a brave man Jonathan. I know why you did what you did, and most people would never have been able to do it, no matter how much they loved their partners. But you did. You were courageous. And no one is blaming you for what you did. So, why should you?"

Jonathan stood up and walked to the window, looking away from the doctor.

For a long while there was silence in the room, apart from the sound of the clock ticking loudly and steadily in the hallway at the top of the staircase.

"Did you know I fought in Northern Ireland? That a long time ago I was a soldier?"

"A soldier? I thought you were a computer expert or something before you retired?"

"I was. But before that, a lifetime ago, I was a soldier. One of many who fought in the Troubles in Northern Ireland, or at least that's what it's become popular to call it now."

More silence.

"I lost friends over there. Brothers. People I loved. But not all were killed by the enemy. Sometimes..." Jonathan swallowed hard. "... Sally wasn't the first person I helped to die. I've done it before..."

Jonathan turned to Dr Mitchell to see his reaction.

"Go on, Jonathan, I'm listening," the doctor said, his face not really giving away any emotions.

"I only did what I knew he would do for me, had the situation been reversed. It was in a field just south of the border in Eire. A group of us had crossed over one night on a mission. There were four of us, under the command of our sergeant. Somehow we were spotted. There was a fight, we had to leave in a hurry, but on the way back towards the border, the sergeant was badly wounded. He was a mess. We couldn't carry him, and we couldn't leave him. We hesitated, not knowing what to do, all the time drawing more fire. And then while we stood there, they killed my friend Bradley Gotting. The sergeant ordered us to leave, but begged me to give him a hand-grenade before we left. I pulled the pin, put it in his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. He smiled at me. He just smiled. We'd only run fifty yards before he released his grip on the grenade. There was a bang, and his suffering was over. We made it home, to freedom, but I think about that day ever since."

Jonathan paused.

"When Sally started to suffer, we talked about what would happen one day. At first I didn't want to. Then, when things got bad, she begged me to help her. I loved her. A lot more than I had the sergeant, and if I was prepared to do that for him, why wouldn't I help her too? Even though I argued with myself that I shouldn't, I knew it was only because I was being selfish. I didn't want to lose her. And then one day she screamed in pain, so loudly, that memories of the sergeant lying in pieces in the field in Eire came flashing back, and I knew then what I had to do. That I had to do it. So I helped Sally to die and to find peace."

There were tears rolling down his face as he spoke.

Staring at the doctor he finished by saying, "She found peace that day. I never have. And I know I never shall until the day we are reunited again, somewhere, someplace, when God decides to call me too."

The doctor stood up and walked across to the window, placing a hand on Jonathan's shoulder.

He didn't say anything.

Then for a while, they simply stood there together, watching the ships in the bay and their lights dancing on the calm sea.

Before the doctor finally left that evening, he made Jonathan promise once more that he would not miss the next appointment up at the hospital.

\-------------------------

Portobello,

Edinburgh

Friday 8.05 a.m.

After the Doctor had left the evening before, Jonathan had felt strangely relaxed. Almost as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in months, maybe a year, he had left his home and gone for a slow walk along the promenade to take in the cool, evening air.

For a while he had sat on the sand, staring out across the sea and thinking about Sally.

About the sergeant. About what he had done.

When he returned to his house and his bed, he had quickly fallen asleep, and for a while he had slept like a log.

Upon waking, however, he couldn't get back to sleep, and his thoughts returned to the accident and the loss of his car.

He had work to do.

In the morning, Jonathan always found a cup of tea to be very reviving. Two were even better.

Sitting now looking out over the bay, the sun was shining and life was beginning to emerge on the beach: cyclists and joggers were passing by along the promenade, either on their way to work or en route to better figures. When Jonathan was younger he had loved to run. He had run everywhere. In Edinburgh you didn't really need a car, only a pair of good, working, young, powerful legs.

Now he had neither.

He thought of his car and worried about it again. Hopefully, it would not cost too much to repair.

Looking at his watch, he remembered that the insurance company opened its doors for business at 8 a.m., so he ambled across the room and found the notepad on which he had scribbled his notes and the telephone numbers for the insurance company.

Making another fresh cup of tea, he moved his chair over to where the phone sat on the sideboard and called Swiss Insurance. He dialled the number and waited for David to pick it up.

"Hi, Swiss Insurance. This is David. How can I help you?"

"David? Hello! This is Jonathan Stuart here...I spoke with you yesterday and you told me that you'd be my personal claim handler? We also talked about Hibernian Football Club?"

"The Hibs? Mr Stuart? Yes, yes, I remember! How are you today?"

"Fine. Thank you..." Jonathan hesitated. "Well, actually, I'm not really completely fine. I'm pretty stressed about all this business..."

"Oh dear. Try not to be. I'm sorry this is happening. But unfortunately, these things do. I'll try to help you all I can. Can I ask, do you have your Policy Number available?"

"Oh...sorry, I don't have it just now. I wrote it down on the paper, but it's in my bedroom downstairs. I'm upstairs, you see..."

"Can you give me your name, address, postcode, date of birth and the make and model of our car?"

Jonathan slowly went through the list, making sure that David had all the details he needed.

"Okay, Mr Stuart, I have all your details here. It's on the system now. I can see that you were involved in the car accident on Willowbrae Road as we discussed two days ago."

"Yes. But it wasn't my fault. Anyway, I just wanted to check a few things. Firstly," Jonathan said, ticking the first item on the list that he had written down to discuss. "I got up early this morning, actually I couldn't really sleep... and I filled in the form that you sent me by email, and I returned it to you. I just wanted to check you'd received it."

"Thank you for doing that Mr Stuart. If you just give me a few moments, I'll check that we got it okay."

There was a few moment's silence at the other end of the phone.

"Yes, I can see that we've received it. And, good news, I can see that the other party has also filled in their form and it has been put on the system. Coincidently, they're also with our insurance company. I'll just take a quick look at the information I'm allowed to see. Please bear with me."

Jonathan took a sip of his tea. Then another one. And another.

"Hello?" Jonathan enquired."Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I was just reading the report. Mr Stuart, can you tell me how the accident happened again, from your perspective?"

"I explained it all yesterday at length. I was hoping that you took notes when I was talking to you, and also, if you read the form I sent you, it has all the details in there!"

"I did, Mr Stuart, but I just wanted to hear from you again, in your own words. I'll tell you why in a moment."

"It's quite simple, really, I was stationary at a set of traffic lights and the car behind drove into me at quite some speed. The driver obviously wasn't paying attention to the road. He probably didn't notice that the lights were red, or that I had stopped. The other driver was entirely at fault."

"Aha. Thank you for explaining that. Unfortunately, the description of the accident as provided by the other party is quite different. He states that you were at fault, that for some reason you slammed your brakes on as you approached the lights, but still crossed the line at the lights. You then revved your engine and reversed quickly back across the line, smashing into the other driver's front bumper. Then the light turned red. He couldn't understand why you slammed your brakes on whilst it was still green and suggests that you were driving without due care and attention and hadn't been paying attention to the lights. He swears that _you_ are entirely at fault."

Jonathan choked on his tea.

"What? What did you just say?"

David - Anand - repeated it all.

"No! NO! That's not at all true. It's all lies! That's not what happened at all!"

"I'm sorry. From what you say, unless you can provide witnesses, it's your word against his."

"But that's rubbish! None of that is true!" Jonathan stood up from his chair and started to wave his free hand in the air as he spoke, almost shouting, and breaking into a fit of coughing.

"I'm sorry. At this stage, however, it's just his word against yours. Did you get any witnesses that could maybe back you up?"

"Yes," Jonathan replied, struggling to stop coughing and speak clearly. "I asked a police officer who was in the queue of traffic behind to come and see what had happened. I got a reference number, which I included in the report I filled out for you."

"I saw that. But were there any others? To be honest, I'm afraid police officers tend to avoid getting involved unless there's a serious injury. And if they were sitting several cars back in the queue, it's unlikely they'll have seen what happened, exactly."

Jonathan's heart had started to beat very fast. He was feeling a mixture of emotions: confusion, anger, desperation - to name but a few.

He thought of the two women and their children and wished he'd been more together and got out of the car and got their details. Which he hadn't.

"I'm sorry. I didn't get any witness details. I know I should have, but everything happened so fast, and I was in a state of shock. I've never had an accident before."

"Unfortunately, I can see that you no longer have Legal Assistance with us, otherwise we would have been able to assist you in asserting your side in court, if need be."

"Are you sure? I was certain I had that."

"I'm sorry. You declined that option several years ago and never took it out again."

Jonathan swore under his breath. He suddenly remembered. It was just after Sally died. Until then she had arranged everything like the car insurance. When it came to the renewal, money was getting tight and being such a good driver, Jonathan had just thought it was an unnecessary expense which he didn't need. He was also not thinking clearly and very depressed. He realised now the decision was a big mistake.

"Mr Stuart. It is the same as your no claims protection. You stopped taking out that option too. Which means that you are now no longer protected, and now you've had an accident, you will also have lost your nine years' discount."

"But why? It wasn't my fault. The other driver smashed into the back of me!"

"As I mentioned, that's not what the other driver is saying. He claims you reversed into him after stopping dangerously and without warning. Which means that on your policy it will now show that you were at fault."

"What do you mean? I'm not at fault. The other driver was!"

"Don't worry. It will only show 'at fault' until the case is resolved, and both parties agree and costs are recovered. Or until we go to court and it's decided there. Until then, the system automatically assumes that both parties may be to blame, and puts that against both names."

"But that's not fair! That's not at all fair! I'm telling you, I've never ever caused an accident in my life. How can it be fair that I'm suddenly being held to blame?"

"Mr Stuart. I'm only following procedures and telling you what is happening. Although the other party is saying that you are to blame, you can fight it."

"How?"

"If you insist that you're not to blame, you can go to court."

"I DO insist."

"You will probably have to pay for that yourself. Unfortunately, in the small print of your contract it states that if we don't believe that we have over a fifty-per-cent chance of winning, then we won't be able to represent you. You would have to pay for any court expenses yourself since you no longer have the legal services protection."

"What? But I can't afford that!"

"I'm sorry. We always do advise customers to take out the legal services option, but we can't force people to do so."

"Oh dear... I'm sorry, but this is all too much for me to handle just now. It's all come as a bit of a shock." Jonathan declared, starting to cough uncontrollably again.

"Why don't you go and take some time to calm down and have a cup of tea, Mr Stuart? When you're feeling better, perhaps you can call us back later?" Anand advised, in a very friendly voice. This time not faking it or following the company line. He felt sorry for the old man.

"Yes, yes, I think that is probably the best policy." Jonathan agreed. He was sitting down now, and mopping his brow with his handkerchief, suddenly feeling very hot and quite dizzy.

After hanging up, Jonathan went through to his bedroom and lay down. He was confused and shaking with both anger and shock. He suddenly felt very, very tired.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and soon he was fast asleep.

Chapter 12

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Friday

00.30 a.m. IST

Anand lay underneath the mosquito net on his mat on the floor of the bedroom he shared with the rest of his family. Their apartment only had a few rooms: somewhere to exist during the day, somewhere else to sleep at night, a small room that acted as a kitchen, and a shed outside where the toilet was. A real, working, water closet.

He couldn't sleep.

He was finding it harder and harder to leave his work in the office, to shake off the depression that was beginning to afflict him every time he stepped through the door, sat in front of his workstation, and began to lie and be 'un-helpful' to people.

Having spent time in England, and being able to speak with the English accent had been an advantage and got him the job, but at the same time, it was a big disadvantage: he knew the people he was lying to, had lived amongst them, may even have passed them on the streets at some point.

He kept thinking of the man with the cough. The kind man who had invited him to see 'the Hibs'. The man he knew he was going to screw over big-time in the next few days.

He hadn't called back anytime today. Anand hoped he was okay.

Maybe it wasn't the man himself, just rather that he was symbolic of the whole system, a system that screwed those who needed their help when they most needed it, and did it with a professional smile on their faces.

Yes, Anand was finding it harder to go into work each day, and if it wasn't for his family, who depended upon him, he would never ever set foot in the insurance building again.

When he eventually did finally manage to fall asleep, he dreamed he was back in England.

He had been happy there.

\-------------------------

Portobello,

Edinburgh

Saturday 8.05 a.m.

After speaking to the insurance company, Jonathan had suddenly felt very weak and quite ill, and had taken himself back to his bed.

He had quickly fallen asleep, and stayed asleep for most of the afternoon.

He had woken just before seven o'clock in the evening, coughing.

Quite worryingly there was a quite a large patch of dried blood on the pillow where he had been lying.

Rising from the bed, he continued to feel weak, dizzy, and his chest hurt. For some reason, he was finding it a little difficult to breathe.

Although he had missed lunch - he'd slept right through it - he wasn't hungry, and couldn't face any food that evening.

So he'd taken himself back to his bedroom and lain down on the bed.

He woke with the early morning sunlight streaming through the window and dancing on his eyes.

Sitting up, then taking a few steps, he immediately felt a bit stronger. There was more blood on the pillow, but apart from that, he felt much better.

Walking into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, he found the note he had written for himself the other day to remind himself about the doctor's appointment at the hospital that following Monday. He mustn't forget that.

He looked at the clock.

It was 7.25 a.m.

Returning to his bedroom he sat in the chair beside his bed and sipped his tea.

When the tea was finished, he dressed, and then climbed the stairs to his lounge, where he settled down comfortably by the phone, picked up his notebook with the phone number of the insurance company in it, and waited for the clock in the hallway to chime 8 a.m. The time that the insurance company would open: from 8 a.m. to 12 noon on a Saturday. Closed on Sundays.

"Hello, Swiss Insurance," the friendly voice on the other end of the phone replied.

Jonathan started to say hello, but was slightly surprised when the voice continued to speak and Jonathan realised it was an automated reply service. "So that we can deal with your call and put you through to the correct department, please have your policy number and personal details ready."

Responding to the questions the friendly voice asked him, he spoke loudly and confidently into the phone and read off his insurance policy number from his notebook, followed by his name, address, post code and date of birth.

When presented with a choice of departments, he listened to the menu but found it too quick, and quickly pressed the number five on his keypad so that he could hear the options again.

Then he selected '3' and waited to be put through to the 'Claims' department.

By the time another voice came online, he was already beginning to feel quite stressed.

"Swiss Insurance. Good morning Mr Stuart. First of all, thank you for going through security this morning. Do you mind if I call you Jonathan?"

"Jonathan? Oh, well, no, I suppose not."

"Good, thank you, Jonathan. So, how may I help you?"

"May I speak to David please?"

"David? I'm sorry, he's on the phone just now. Can I help you?"

"No, thank you. Sorry, I just want to talk to David. I was rather rude to him yesterday and I think I hung up on him. I need to apologise."

"That's okay, Mr Stuart. People are often hanging up on us. We are trained to deal with it. If you wish, I can accept your apology on David's behalf?"

"I'm sorry... what do you mean?" Jonathan was momentarily confused. "Actually, no, I'd prefer to speak to David myself. I've spoken to him several times and he's dealing with my claim."

"Thank you, Jonathan. But I can help you too, if you wish..."

Jonathan started to cough.

"No, thank you. I would just like to speak with David."

"David isn't available at present..."

"When will he be available?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell. He's on the phone..."

"Can you please tell him that I called and ask if he can call me back as soon as he's free?"

"Certainly Jonathan. However, that may not be for a while. Are you sure you don't want me to help you?"

"I'm sure. Quite sure. Please tell David I'm sitting by the phone waiting for him to call me."

"I certainly will. Thank you for calling Swiss Insurance, Mr Stuart. I hope we have been able to serve you well this morning. Goodbye."

Inside the call centre, the red number on the wall showing the number of calls which had successfully been dealt with, quietly increased by one.

In Portobello, Scotland, Mr Jonathan Stuart sat staring at the phone. Coughing.

\-------------------------

Portobello,

Edinburgh

Saturday 9.55 a.m.

The phone rang.

Jonathan jumped, and almost fell off his chair, realising that he had fallen asleep.

"Hello?" he said weakly, then coughed a few times and spoke again. "HELLO. Jonathan Stuart here."

"Mr Stuart? Hi, it's David from Swiss Insurance. I'm returning your call. I was just given a note saying that you wanted to speak with me."

"I do. I do. Thanks. Sorry, I tried calling you earlier, but you were on the phone, and I asked your colleague to ask you to call me back as soon as you were free."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just given the message now." David paused. "How can I help you?"

Jonathan apologised for yesterday. "After all, I know it wasn't your fault. You're just trying your best to help me, and I appreciate it, so I apologise for stopping the conversation yesterday. I was just feeling a little unwell, and a bit angry. Not at you, but at what's happening, if you know what I mean."

"Please don't worry about it, Mr Stuart..."

"Jonathan, we agreed you could call me Jonathan?" Jonathan interrupted.

"Yes, sorry, thank you, Jonathan. But don't worry about it. It is very normal to be upset. We're specially trained to help you, and we understand how stressful this can be."

A moment's silence.

Jonathan carried on.

"Can I ask you a few questions? Yes... good, well, you see, I'd like to know if you've heard anything back from the car company who took the car away to assess the damage. I'm hoping you can authorise the repairs as soon as possible, and maybe even get the car fixed this weekend. You see, I'm lost without the car. I need it fixed as soon as possible."

David swallowed hard, and opened the green manual on his desk to page ninety-six, putting his index finger on the first line of the text he needed to start repeating next.

"Yes, certainly. Let me just check the records," David read from the first line. "Aha, yes, I can see that they've sent in a letter already with details of their assessment of the damage done to your car."

David paused.

"Let me just open up the file and read their report. Do you mind if I put you on hold for a moment?"

"No, that's okay. I'll be here..."

David pressed the hold button on his phone and stood up from his desk. He took off his headset and walked to the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water.

Taking several deep breathes and splashing more cold water on his face, he returned to his desk.

He'd done this bit a thousand times before, but all last night he'd known this was coming and was dreading it. For some reason, he knew this was going to be far harder than usual.

"Hello, Jonathan, I'm back. Are you still there?" David asked, half-hoping that Mr Stuart would have got fed up waiting and hung up.

"Yes," Jonathan replied. "I'm still here! Did you manage to read what they said? When can you fix it?"

"Jonathan," David started, quickly scanning the text on page ninety-seven, having taken a break and left the customer waiting as dictated on page ninety-six. "Yes, I've read the report, and I have the report from the garage concerning their assessment of the damage to your car. They've provided me with a detailed list of all the damages, and their estimated repair costs. Along with due consideration of the age of the car, and the general state of the car in the condition it was before the damage occurred, they've assessed that the cost of repairing the car is far greater than its economic value." David paused, saying nothing more, as suggested in the guidelines.

Placing his finger on the next line of text, and waiting for Jonathan to respond, he took a deep breath, his heart beating uncharacteristically fast, considering he'd done this a thousand times before.

"I don't understand. They say the car is still repairable though don't they? Which is good! So, you will still fix it though, ... right?"

David skimmed the next paragraph in the book.

Why was he finding it so hard?

Looking up from the book and scanning round the rest of office, David took a moment to watch the hundreds of others employed in the call centre, all expertly not helping those who had paid for their help.

David looked down at his desk, pushing the instruction manual away and closing it with his right hand.

He took another deep breath.

"Mr Stuart, ... Jonathan... I'm sorry, but we won't be able to repair the car for you. The report from the garage means that your car is now a Class C write-off. It's no longer safe to drive on the road. This means that we'll determine a value for the car, and send you a cheque for its value, once you have agreed to that course of action."

"What do you mean a write-off? How much will it cost to repair the car? What does the garage say?"

"Their costs come to £900, and your car is currently valued at only £500."

"£500? That's wrong! There is... sorry, _was_ , nothing wrong with the car! I've looked after it really carefully for years and years. If I wanted to do, I could still drive it to London and back at eighty miles an hour. The car's brilliant. It's never ever broken down before!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Stuart. That was before. But you had an accident, and now it's been classified as a Cat C, sorry, Category C, and it's no longer safe to drive." David replied, starting to go off-script. He could hear the anguish the man was going through. He had also started coughing violently at the other end of the phone.

"You said, 'once I have agreed that course of action'. What is the other course of action?"

"You could retain the car and fix it yourself. Once the repair has been completed, and you have obtained an independent engineer's report and sent us a copy of the invoices for the repair, the status of the car can then be amended on the system, and you will be allowed to find new insurance for the car and drive it again on the roads."

"Fix it myself and then get an independent report? That could cost a fortune!"

"Which is why it has been declared an economic write-off," David replied, turning to the screen and going to the website of "Wrexham Magic Cars", the auction website that Swiss Insurance used to sell off all the cars they had written-off. While he waited for Jonathan to think of what he wanted to say next, David entered the number plate of the car into their admin portal for the system and quickly found the webpage that Wrexham Cars were already building, in preparation for selling off Jonathan's car for a 'magic' price. In recent years, the car auction side of the insurance business had grown dramatically, developing a revenue stream for Swiss Insurance which was beginning to rival the revenue from the insurance premiums itself. David had long ago figured out how it worked, and it was another aspect of the business he now lived and contributed to day-to-day that was making him feel sick. Basically, his insurance company was increasingly finding ways to lower the cost-points (a proportion of the value that the car may be valued at) at which they could declare a car a write-off. An increasing number of cars were now successfully being declared as Cat C by the insurer without the values being challenged by the owner... On the same day the car is declared a write-off, one of a network of car auctioneers is passed the details of the car, and it prepares to sell the car immediately. Private garages, or anyone with a knowledge of cars, can then buy the car from the auctioneers and use cheaper parts or labour than the insurance company could 'officially' access, to fix the damage, declare the car roadworthy, and then sell the car on for a significant profit. Everyone profits. Except the customer.

Last year Swiss Insurance sold on hundreds of thousands of Cat C write-offs, with a lot of the cars having minimal damage - like scratches - that were easily repairable.

"Hang on a second," Jonathan suddenly questioned David. "Why have the garage sent you a report in the first place? We agreed, - you _promised_ me - , that I wouldn't make a claim on the insurance until we got an estimate from the garage on how bad the damage would be. We never asked them to do such an official report. I haven't even decided whether to make a claim or not!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Stuart, it says on the system that you did want to make a claim. Which is why the car was valued."

"That's not true, I only wanted to get the damage looked at to see how bad it was, not to make a claim... or make it official."

"I am sorry, Mr Stuart, but by engaging with the garage and having them take it away, it means that you have started an official claim..."

"But that's not what you promised me would happen. I never made a claim..."

"I am sorry, Mr Stuart, it says on the system that you called us at 10.31 a.m last Thursday, and you informed us of the accident and opened a claim. Which means that now the claim has been opened, we are responsible for the car, and according to the contract between yourself and Swiss Insurance, we can decide what happens to the car. In this case, it has been declared a write-off and we'll retain the car until we agree what happens to it next."

Jonathan had started coughing repeatedly. His head had begun to swim. His pulse was racing. None of this made any sense to him. It's wasn't logical!

"But that's stealing! That car belongs to me. I want it back!"

"There is an option for you to buy the car back from us..."

"What do you mean, buy it back from you! It's my car!"

"Mr Stuart, I'm sorry you're finding this upsetting. I understand this can be a difficult time. But since you have registered a claim, the car now effectively belongs to Swiss Insurance, unless you choose the option to buy it back from us. However, if you do, since it's on the system now as a Category C write-off, you cannot drive the car any longer until the damage is fixed and the repairs are verified by us, confirming that the work has been completed and assessed by an independently qualified and recognised engineer."

"What system? Who put what on which system?"

"Mr Stuart, since you made a claim, and because we've received the report from the appointed garage concerning the car, the car is now officially down on the system as a Category C. That cannot be changed by anyone without the official paperwork, and if you do opt to buy the car back from us as part of a settlement, then any future owner or purchaser of the car will be able to see that it is a Category C write-off until the car is repaired and the repairs are verified."

Jonathan was beginning to feel sick.

"Hang on, hang on, I need to think about his... I don't understand everything you're saying to me. Can you please hang on while I go and get a cup of water?"

"Yes, certainly."

"You won't hang up, will you? I just need a moment to think..."

"Not at all, Mr Stuart. I will wait for you. I understand this is a lot of information."

David heard Jonathan put down the phone and he could make out his footsteps as he presumably walked towards his kitchen.

Thinking back to the manual, David knew that it quite clearly stated that the employee of Swiss Insurance should at this point hang up the phone. Let the customer call back. And then, if the phone was finally connected back to the original responder, to simply apologise for the poor line, and the fact that somehow they were disconnected.

The responder should swiftly move onto another call. Not wait. Not be overly helpful.

Statistics showed that a significant proportion of callers would not call back.

Which meant more revenue to the insurance company.

David knew that from this point forward the focus for the insurance company was to get the customer to accept whatever they were told by themselves. Not to ask too many questions. And, if at all possible, to reduce the likelihood of the customer demanding to speak to a more senior manager, or someone in the Customer Complaints department, which was incidentally, known by everyone in the company to be the most understaffed department in the company.

If a complaint was transferred to that department, the phone would ring and ring and ring, and only be answered after a _very_ long time.

Ignoring everything the manual instructed him to do at this juncture, David waited for Jonathan Stuart to come back.

While he waited, David began to worry about several things.

First, he couldn't believe how bad he was beginning to feel about this. What was it about this case that was so different from all the others? Was it simply the straw that was slowly breaking the camel's back?

Second, was David beginning to develop a conscience?

Thirdly, what was going to happen next?

David was entering unchartered territory.

While he waited, for the first time in months, the corners of his mouth began to turn up.

He recognised the feeling.

Once, in a former life, others would have recognised it as a smile.

An idea was beginning to form in David's mind.

A novel idea.

A cheeky idea.

Something that no one had ever truly thought of before in his company.

Despite all his training, from now on, David was going to do his best to _help_ Mr Stuart.

Chapter 13

Colinton

Edinburgh

Saturday 10.30 a.m.

DCI Campbell McKenzie pulled into the entrance driveway of Ivor Petrovsky's Edinburgh mansion, wound down his window and pressed the buzzer on the post in front of the large, reinforced wooden gates.

"DCI McKenzie and Inspector Wessex from Police Scotland. We'd like to speak with Mr Petrovsky please."

"May I say what it's in connection with?" a disembodied voice asked.

"We'd just like to have a chat with him. Could you let us in please?"

There was the sound of muffled voices then the large gates began to swing slowly inward.

From the street, a casual passer-by would never have suspected that such a large, impressive house sat behind the rather unimpressive gates. Driving slowly onto the gravel driveway that swept in a large curve around a fountain, Campbell wondered at how much such a house would cost. Spread over three floors, in over an acre of land only thirty minutes from the city centre, even if you didn't know Petrovsky's background, anyone would immediately find themselves asking how on earth an immigrant from Poland with little English could so quickly afford such a place - legitimately.

The answer of course was obvious.

And anyone hearing one sentence issued from Petrovsky's mouth, would realise the improbability of him being a Pole. Although not yet proven officially, it was almost certain the man was Russian. One of the first to infiltrate Scotland and extend the empire of the Russian Mafia to the UK.

As McKenzie parked the car outside the house, and stepped out, Petrovsky himself came down the flight of stairs from the large double doors to meet them, clapping his hands together loudly and smiling broadly.

"Da, so, eet ees nice to see you again, Inspector McKenzie." He bellowed, opening his arms out in a gesture of welcome. "Eet has been a while, has eet not? Almost two months?"

Campbell shrugged his shoulders and was about to speak when Petrovsky turned his attention to Inspector Wessex.

"Ah, D.C.I. Wessex. So pleasant to see you again. I think perhaps, you are most beautiful policewoman in whole of Scotland, ...not?"

Ignoring his remarks, and refraining from acknowledging the flattery but noting the deliberate attempt to annoy them my mixing their ranks, Wessex inquired if they may be allowed into the house.

"Certainly. Please, follow me."

Petrovsky gestured towards the house, trying to act the perfect gentleman and as if they were truly welcome guests to his mansion.

As they entered his humble abode, they came into a large hallway, tiled in checked black-and-white marble squares, from w

hich a white marble staircase swept up to the second floor in a slow, graceful curve to the left.

"Please, follow me," Petrovsky urged them, as he walked through a large double door and into one of the largest lounges that Campbell had ever seen.

"Sit, please, and I will fetch us drinks. Vot vould you like? Vodka, tea, coffee?"

"Nothing thank you. We're here on business, not pleasure." McKenzie replied.

"Vot sort of business? My assistant says that you vonted to have a chat, no? Normally, a chat is friendly, but I think you are not vonting to be so friendly."

Campbell nodded at Wessex, signifying that it was okay to sit.

Just then, a large Alsatian bounded into the room, barking loudly and drooling saliva from the sides of his mouth.

Petrovsky shouted at the dog coarsely, waving his arms in the air and stepping towards it abruptly, all pretence of acting like the laird of a stately home momentarily vanishing.

When he shouted at the animal, a string of Russian came out of his mouth.

Briefly, the dog's two large ears dropped down the side of its head, which turned slightly to the side with its large eyes looking forlornly up at its master. Then it turned on the spot and bounded out of the room as fast as it could go.

"Apologies. A vonderful guard dog, but not the friendliest of hosts. Please do not be scared. He vill not harm you while I am here."

"And when you are not here?"

"He will rip your throat out. Probably. It only happened once before, and I shouldn't really tell you about that, should I?" Petrovsky said quite matter-of-factly, his blue eyes twinkling in the light of the chandelier as he took a seat opposite them. "Or, maybe, perhaps I am joking. But vot is guard dog for, if not for causing alarm and scaring away of bad people?"

McKenzie listened and took note. Petrovsky may be joking, or perhaps he was being overconfident. Either 'vay', it would still be 'vorth' checking the files for any unsolved deaths involving suspected dog attacks.

Petrovsky was already considered the main suspect in over twenty unsolved murders in Scotland over the past five years. None of them could be pinned on him. There was no proof to connect him conclusively to any of them. Yet, they all carried his hallmark.

Sheer brutality. Sadism. And a lot of blood.

If his dog had ripped the throat out of someone, McKenzie would hazard a guess that Petrovsky had watched it happening, smiling.

"So, enough pleasantries. Now you are both comfortable, please, tell me, how can I help you?"

McKenzie pulled out two photographs from the envelope he was carrying.

"We wanted to ask you if you knew this man?"

As the Russian picked up the photos, he took out a pair of round, golden spectacles from his shirt pocket and put them on.

Squinting down his broken nose at the images, he made a funny face, the corners of his mouth turning down, and he shook his head from side to side.

"Know? As in, is he friend of mine?" Petrovsky asked, removing the spectacles with a quick movement of his right hand and dropping them safely back into his breast pocket.

"Have you seen him before?"

"My memory is bad. Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have not. What is right answer I should give you?" Petrovsky sat back in his leather armchair, resting a hand on each of the armrests.

"Can you tell us where you were last Monday night, early Tuesday morning?"

Petrovsky smiled, and turning towards the door they had come through, he shouted, catching them both a little by surprise.

"Anya? Come!"

Turning back towards them, still smiling confidently, he waited in silence. Very soon there was the sound of footsteps approaching, coming down the stairs in the hallway outside the room.

A tall, beautiful woman entered the room, most likely naked under a thin silk dressing gown which fell gently down around ample curves, the nipples of her large breasts pressing firmly against the material and protruding outwards.

She walked very sexily over to Petrovsky, and approaching his armchair from behind, she bent towards his bald head and kissed it, before leaning forwards so her face was beside his.

"I am sorry, my sweet. I was in the shower. I did not hear that you had guests."

"Where was I last Monday night, darling? The Police Inspector would like to know."

"Why, I don't know if I should say, but since you insist... You were with me, my darling. In bed. Fucking me. As you do every night."

Petrovsky turned slightly, kissed her cheek, then raised his left hand, dismissing her.

The woman stood up, smiled and looked seductively at Campbell, then turned slowly and exited the room, her movements smooth and fluid, reminding Campbell of a lioness.

It had been a good show.

Petrovsky has asserted a cast-iron alibi, and Campbell knew it would be hard to disprove. No matter what they asked him, Petrovsky would not tell them anything. He was a professional thug, confident, business-like, and deadly.

Campbell, however, already had all the information he needed.

Although he had tried his best to hide it, the look in Petrovsky's eyes the instant he had seen the man in the photograph, had told him what he wanted to know.

Petrovsky knew Keith Urqhart.

How he knew him, and if he was involved in his death, Campbell still needed to find out.

As they drove out of the driveway and the gates closed behind him, Campbell said very little, except for one sentence.

"I can't help but think they knew we were coming."

Or was he just being paranoid?

Chapter 14

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Saturday

6 p.m. IST

Anand was worried. After waiting for around thirty minutes for Mr Stuart to come back to the phone, the duty manager had come across to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. A brief conversation had ensued, in which his manager had clearly instructed him to move onto the next customer.

"If the customer doesn't call us back, that is what we want. Well done. Now move on."

"He hasn't hung up the phone though. Perhaps the man has fallen. Or hurt himself."

"Hang up, call him back, then if he doesn't answer, move on."

His manager was insistent, not realising the stupidity of what he was instructing Anand to do.

Nevertheless, he was not in a situation to argue, so he did as he was told.

As feared and expected, when he called back, the phone in Scotland was engaged.

Over the next few hours Anand had spoken with many people and not helped any of them.

After every call he had tried to contact Mr Stuart back, but each time the phone was engaged.

He had just finished his last call of the day and was due to go home to his family and cook them a meal.

Mentally praying that the man in Scotland would answer the call, he dialled the number.

The phone rang.

Anand bit his lip, hoping for the phone to be picked up any moment.

In the last few hours, Anand had made his mind up.

He liked the old man. For some reason, he had really taken to him. His story was similar to that of so many others and was not anything special, but almost inexplicably there was a connection there.

Was it just because he wanted to be able to accept the offer of the trip to see 'the Hibs' play in Edinburgh, or was it because, in order to save his own humanity, he needed to make a stand, and for once, do the right thing?

Anand didn't know.

All he knew was that from now on Anand was going to do everything in his power to help him.

Henceforth, for Mr Jonathan Stuart, it was going to be nothing less than perfect service with a smile.

A good decision.

Unfortunately, however, no one picked up the phone.

He tried hanging up three times, calling back and letting it ring again, but after ten minutes he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

His family were expecting him, and he had to go home.

Switching off his computer, he hurried out of the building, leaving behind Scotland, Hibernian Football Club, and everyone in the rest of the United Kingdom.

Outside, he was immediately surrounded by the comparative misery and poverty of the suburbs of Maharashtra, and a dark cloud descended upon Anand.

As he made his way home, one thought pervaded his brain: was Mr Stuart okay?

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

5.15 p.m. G.M.T.

Operations Room, Basement

It was twenty minutes into the afternoon meeting in the basement before one of the police officers announced the first major step forward in the case.

Until then each police officer involved in Operation Queens had stood up and given a quick summary of their activity in the past twenty-four hours, none of which had resulted in anything significant.

Further enquiries undertaken in the Queen's Park talking to regulars who walked their dogs in and around the area had drawn a blank, and there had been no reports from any students at the university halls of residence of anyone having seen anything suspicious in the Park around the time of the murder.

It was when Detective Constable Quinn announced the results from the DNA testing of the hair found on the body, that the case got its first, well-needed shot of adrenaline.

"The lab results just came back an hour ago. Unfortunately, the news probably isn't what we hoped for. The report says that the hair belongs to a dog, not a human."

DI Wessex perked up.

"I don't suppose they were able to identify what type of dog it was?" she asked loudly.

"Actually, they have. It belongs to an Alsatian."

Wessex looked across at Campbell McKenzie who was already thinking the same thing.

While one of the police officers recorded this contribution in the meeting notes, McKenzie smiled and told the rest of the room, the significance of the report.

"This morning, DI Wessex and I paid a visit to Ivor Petrovsky, to see if he had an alibi for Monday evening. Which he claims to have. However, what was significant about the visit was that at one point when we were interviewing Mr Petrovsky, his guard dog burst into the room and almost attacked us. It was a large Alsatian."

A murmur went around the room.

"It could be a coincidence. But it's worth checking out. Wessex, come to my office after we're finished here. Okay, who's next? Salmond?"

A tall, very thin officer at the back of the room stood up.

"I was enquiring into the money that was found in Urqhart's bank accounts. The bank was able to tell me where the money went, but as yet, they've not provided any details of where it came from. As for the money, it was all transferred into a pension account, one which is known to his wife. I'm hoping to find out in the next few days where the money came from in the first place."

"Can you also get details on the pension account, and see how often Urqhart had been making payments into it? Was this a regular thing?"

"I've done that already. Apart from another single payment into the account last year of £50,000 which his wife didn't know anything about, the rest of the payments appear to be normal, monthly payments in. Private contributions from his salary."

"And the £50,000?"

"No details yet. I'm on that too."

"Good work, thanks."

McKenzie checked his watch.

"Okay, that's it for today then. Thank you all for the overtime and enjoy your day tomorrow. I appreciate the effort, everyone. Good work."

McKenzie and Wessex watched the others file out, then made their way silently up the stairs into McKenzie's office.

Campbell closed the door, turning to Wessex.

"Don't sit down, yet... It was good thinking about the hair. Now all we need is to find out if the hair belongs to the same Alsatian. I'm guessing that you haven't changed any of your clothes since this morning?"

"Nope. I've been here since we got back. Chance would be a fine thing."

"Good." McKenzie smiled. "Okay, I'm going to turn around really slowly and I want you to look at my trousers and my back and see if you can see any dog hairs on me. Hopefully we can find at least one. The seats we sat on must have been covered in them. We'll need to find a few just to make sure."

As he lifted up his arms and turned slowly around, Wessex bent down slightly and followed instructions.

"Go around again...?" she requested after finding nothing the first time round. "Nope, sorry, I can't see anything. My turn?"

McKenzie nodded, glancing over at the door again to make sure the blind was drawn and no one could see in. He could only imagine how odd this must look to anyone outside.

After seeing nothing obvious on the first pass, McKenzie squatted down and moved a little closer. Studying a female's bottom from such close quarters certainly wasn't the worst job he had ever done before, but he would have a lot of explaining to do if someone burst into the room without knocking first.

"STOP!" he almost shouted, anticipating success.

"I think we might have something..." he said, looking up at Wessex and smiling. "Shall I?... _May_ I?"

Walking quickly round to his desk, he opened a drawer and pulled out one of the many small plastic bags that they often used for objects recovered at crime scenes. Then, pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, he returned to Wessex's side and used a small pair of tweezers to capture the hair on her trousers and drop it into the bag.

"What about the car? Maybe we dropped some hairs on the car seats?" Wessex suggested, resulting in them both walking down to the car they had driven to Petrovsky's house and successfully recovering three other hairs into three separate plastic bags.

"Hopefully," McKenzie said, as he put the bags carefully into another bag and returned to his office with Wessex, "one of these will be a match. If they are, then we need to pay Petrovsky another visit, take a sample from the dog directly, and have the dog impounded for safe-keeping. With any luck, we may have our man. Then all we need is a motive."

DI Wessex smiled. The idea about the dog hair had been hers. With any luck, soon they would be able to make an arrest.

\-------------------------

Portobello

Sunday Morning

10. a.m. G.M.T.

Jonathan stirred, slowly opening his eyes.

He felt so weak.

The room above him was spinning, and as he closed his eyes again, a wave of nausea passed through him.

He started to cough, turning over onto his side and fumbling for the handkerchief he hoped was still under his pillow, waiting to cover his mouth before he coughed more blood onto his bed or the floor.

Cough. Cough. Cough.

Pulling the handkerchief back, his heart sank when he saw the rich red blood covering the handkerchief.

More this morning than there was last night.

And more last night than there was yesterday afternoon.

What was causing the sudden changes he was seeing in his body? What was happening to him? He closed his eyes and tried to relax. After lying for a while longer he started to feel a little better and tried to open his eyes again.

Thankfully, everything had stopped moving, and the world around him seemed more stable.

Taking an age to sit up, he sat on the side of his bed and remembered yesterday afternoon and last night.

He recalled speaking to David in the insurance company, and getting so upset that he had to walk away to calm down, although instead of feeling better, he had just begun to feel worse. What David had said to him seemed beyond comprehension...too much to cope with. The whole business with the car was spiralling out of control. It was like a nightmare which got worse and worse every time he talked to the insurance company.

The other driver had lied through his teeth about what had happened, and the insurance company now seemed to be taking his side!

Why would someone lie like that?

What sort of person would do that?

Then, when David had waited on the phone for Jonathan to return, Jonathan started to cough again. More blood. More pains in his chest.

Finally, the coughing had stopped.

He then remembered feeling dizzy and light headed, then waking up on the floor in the bathroom.

Coughing.

Blood on the tiles under his face.

Taking an age to first kneel up, then stand, he'd started on his way to his bedroom -he'd needed to lie down- and passing the phone he had found it still off the hook.

He'd picked it up.

Then he remembered..

"David?" he'd said into the receiver, but there was no one there.

Placing the phone back on the cradle, he walked slowly to the bedroom, leaning against the wall for support.

When he got to his bed, he couldn't believe how tired he was.

His coughing seemed to be getting out of control now, and his chest was aching from the effort.

His throat hurt.

Leaning back on the bed, he closed his eyes to rest.

He'd opened his eyes again a few hours later, saw that it was dark, then closed them again.

After another coughing fit and more blood, he had finally managed to lie back on the pillow and rest.

He needed to sleep.

That was last night.

What time was it now?

Reaching a finger up to his nose, he realised that his glasses were not there.

Where were they?

"Ah..." he said to himself, guessing that they had probably fallen off his nose when he fell, and were probably somewhere on the bathroom floor.

Another wave of dizziness.

Refusing to lie down he instead tried to stand and take a few steps forward.

Suddenly his knees went out from underneath him, and he collapsed.

It was a few minutes before he opened his eyes again.

He lay on the floor of his bedroom, looking up at the ceiling.

His thoughts were spasmodic, not completely rationale, darting from one thing to another.

Sally. Where was she?

Ah...

Sadness.

The car?

How could the other man lie like that?

Why?

David had said the car would be written-off.

Oh dear.

Why would the man lie?

Bastard.

If he'd been younger, he'd have known what to do.

He'd have gone around to see him.

To have a chat and talk to him man-to-man.

What could be done now?

He had no legal insurance? He couldn't afford to take him to court to get the truth.

Even just thinking about the situation made him feel worse.

Jonathan was feeling very ill now. Was all this because of the stress?

He couldn't cope with this.

Sally would have known what to do.

Sally...

Forget the car. Forget the insurance. Jonathan needed to walk away from this.

For the sake of his own health.

He lay on the floor thinking. Worrying. Getting stressed and angry again.

No. No. He'd couldn't walk away from this. Not yet.

Jonathan knew that it wasn't that simple.

Yes, he could forget the car. The insurance money. Any hope of repairs. He knew he was in no fit state to cope with the paperwork, the phone calls and the lies.

The lies.

Yes, the lies.

He thought of the lies, realising that there it was.

The crux of the matter.

Jonathan couldn't just walk away from the lies.

The other driver had lied through his teeth. Jonathan couldn't accept that.

Lying was against everything Jonathan and Sally had ever stood for.

There was never ever any excuse for it.

Jonathan could not let this lie.

The other man had to apologise to him. Personally. To admit liability.

Insurance claim or not, they both knew what had happened and who was really to blame.

Jonathan was innocent.

And the other man was at fault.

Why the other man was behaving like such a bastard, Jonathan did not know. Actually, Jonathan did not _need_ to know.

Accepting that he didn't have the strength to fight the battle with the insurance company to recover the car or chase the paperwork, Jonathan realised now that all he needed was one thing.

The other man had to apologise to him personally.

Admit it was his fault.

And to say he was sorry.

Chapter 15

Radisson Blu Hotel

The Royal Mile,

Edinburgh

Sunday 3.00 p.m.

Tommy McNunn lay back on the bed, his hands crossed behind his head, supporting his neck slightly as he watched his companion walk naked to the bathroom.

He admired her bottom, and the curvature of each individual buttock as they joined into each thigh beneath.

Her body was a work of art.

Her breasts, which he couldn't see just now as she walked away from him, but which he had just spent the past thirty minutes slowly kissing, were truly sublime.

Soft, heavy, perfect.

Her eyes were like sparkling diamonds.

Blonde hair, soft to the touch, and wonderful to smell.

As he lay back, admiring her, tired from their activities so far this afternoon, and already looking forward to some more time spent with her, and inside her, he couldn't help but feel like the cat who had got the cream.

Except in his case, he owned the cream factory.

It would be wrong to say that he was in love with her, for Tommy McNunn probably didn't really know what love was, but it would be fair to say that he was more in lust with this woman, than with any of the others he 'owned'.

He called her Caroline. Not because that was her name, but because to him, she had always looked like his idea of how a Caroline should be. The name and the woman went well together.

Tommy had first seen her in Edinburgh's Commonwealth Pool, one morning while swimming.

She had only been seventeen then, but he didn't find that out until too late.

It didn't change things though. She wasn't the first young damsel whose 'maidenhead' he had taken. Maidenheads were something that he had always enjoyed to 'collect', and probably would continue to do so for many years to come.

However, with 'Caroline', it had been slightly different.

There had been something special about her. They became friends. He had nurtured her, helped her, and slowly without realising it, had fallen under her spell as much as she had fallen under his.

Caroline wasn't stupid. She had soon learned who Tommy McNunn was, but that didn't change things. If anything, it made their relationship even more special.

She looked up to him. Soon she was coming to him for guidance, and answers to questions that he was only too willing to help her with.

He had become her mentor. It was Tommy who had suggested and encouraged her to go to university. It was even Tommy who had paid most of her fees and subsidised her student life.

They were never boyfriend or girlfriend. Yet, they did have sex together. Often.

He taught her everything he knew, and in return she helped him discover everything else he didn't. In bed, she was one of the most liberated women Tommy had ever known. Which was obviously part of the attraction.

They met regularly. Not so often that it became boring, but just enough to keep the spark there, and for him to retain control over her as she grew up and became more self-confident and independent.

Although 'Caroline' never really noticed it, Tommy moulded her. He helped shape who she became as she transformed into a beautiful young woman.

She left University with a good grade, an honourable 2.1, and as she picked her degree up, Tommy had watched in the background from the shadows as her mother and father had fussed over her and congratulated her, her mother shedding tears of joy and pride.

Once she had graduated, Tommy had suggested her 'chosen' career and she had liked the idea. At first she just thought it cheeky, and wildly reckless, given who he was, but then she had decided that if she were to have to work, why not? It would be interesting.

He had promised to help her, and he had.

Thanks to him, she had enjoyed promotions, and success, and now her career was accelerating faster than either of them had ever dreamed.

Tommy was proud of her. For all she had achieved. He drew strength from being with her, although for pleasurable reasons, he always left her more tired than before they met.

He did not yet know it, but as well as a source of strength, she would also be his Achilles Heel.

Caroline closed the door to the bathroom and Tommy relaxed back onto the pillow.

His phone began to ring.

Staring at the ceiling, he put the phone to his ear without checking who the call was from.

"Hello, is that Thomas McNunn?" a voice said, almost nervously, before the caller began to cough.

"Yes, that's me. Who the fuck are you?"

There was a moment's hesitation.

"I'm the 'fucker' whose car you wrote off the other day when you rammed into my back at the lights on Willowbrae Road."

"I thought I told you not to call me again, _FUCKER_!"

"You did. But I wanted to ask you something."

Tommy sat up in the bed, sitting back against the headboard.

"What?"

"I just wanted to know why you told the insurance company it was my fault? Clearly it wasn't."

"It's your word against mine and I say it was your fault. I think people will listen to me more than they'll listen to you."

"Why?"

"People tend to listen to me, and do what I say, that's why. And if they don't, I make them."

"Listen, Mr McNunn. You don't scare me. I don't know why you're insisting that the crash was my fault, but maybe you have your reasons. The thing is, I just wanted to say something to you." The man coughed a couple of times and Tommy was just about to hang up when the voice carried on. "The thing is, I don't care about what you say to the insurance company anymore. I don't have the energy to cope with them, or to fill in all their forms and spend hours on the phone each time I call them to try and sort out the mess you made. But I did want to give you the chance to admit to me, in person, that it was your fault, and to let you have the chance to do the decent thing and to apologise to me personally on the phone. Man-to-man."

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. The man was either an idiot or stupid. Or both.

"You want me to apologise to you? Are you fucking mental, or something? Tommy McNunn never apologises to anyone, mate, and I'm not going to start breaking the habit of a lifetime with a bastard like you."

"Please, Mr McNunn. Just say it once. Just say you're sorry. Now. Get it over and done with. A simple apology will do."

"Stop. Listen to me you idiot. I want to make this very clear to you..."

"Say you're sorry."

"Fucking listen, pal... Just listen to me. This is going to be the last time...."

"Say you're sorry."

"You are a basket case, and you're beginning to make me very, very fucking mad. If you tell me what to do one more time, I'll..."

"SAY YOU ARE SORRY!" the man shouted at him.

Jumping out of bed and standing up straight Tommy took the phone away from his face and stared at the screen. Who the hell was this guy? He had balls, that was for sure!

"I warned you, you TWAT. You stupid twat. I warned you, but now..."

"Sorry. But. Say you. Are. Sorry."

"FUCK!!!!!"

"Say you're sorry!"

"LISTEN TO ME, YOU TWAT!"

"Are you sorry? Are you going to say it?"

"I'll find you. I'll fucking hunt you down and bloody kill you, you..."

"Say you're sorry. Or do you want me to _make_ _you_ sorry?"

"ARE YOU THREATENING ME NOW? YOU STUPID FUCK!" McNunn was almost incandescent with rage now, and was storming around the bedroom, shouting at the phone. He wanted to hang up, but he couldn't until he had got the last word in. And the twat at the other end of the connection kept speaking over him, not giving him a chance to finish a sentence.

"Say you're sorry."

"YOU will be sorry."

"I already am. That I met you. Now it's your turn to say you're sorry. Just say it. Then this goes away."

"WHAT goes away?" Tommy caught the edge on the man's sentence. Was there something more to this?

"This."

"What's this?"

"Say you're sorry!"

"FUCK YOU!" Tommy shouted at the phone, hung up and threw the phone at the pillow on the bed.

Caroline opened the door to the bathroom, water dripping from her body onto the floor.

"What's happening. I could hear you shouting in the shower," she asked.

"Nothing. NOTHING. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Now, please, finish your shower, and come back to bed. I need to leave soon."

"A minute, " she smiled wickedly. "Give me a minute, Tommy. I just want to put something on for you. A little surprise and something which I think you'll like."

"Good. Great. Can't wait." He said, walking back to the bed, ignoring her and picking up his phone, and checking to see if he had the caller id of the nutter who had just called him.

"Private number withheld."

"Shit!" Tommy shouted again, wondering where he had put the scrap of paper with the number of the old man on it, that he'd written down after the accident. Was it on his desk somewhere?

Just then Caroline emerged into the bedroom in black suspenders and stockings.

"Oh,.... _shit_!" he said, turning towards her. She looked incredible. He stared at the phone, and then back at Caroline.

Swallowing hard and taking a long, deep breath, he dropped the phone back onto the bed, and walked slowly towards Caroline.

She was already turning towards the wall, her legs apart, her hands resting on the wall, her bottom pushed out slightly towards him.

"Unbelievable," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "Bloody unbelievable..."

And that was the last he thought about Jonathan Stuart for the rest of the afternoon.

\-------------------------

Portobello

Sunday Afternoon

3.18 p.m.

Jonathan hung up the phone.

The conversation had not gone according to plan, but it hadn't been a disaster either.

He had intended to call Thomas McNunn and reason with him. He'd hoped that once he had admitted that he would not pursue him via the insurance company, and that all he wanted was a private apology, that McNunn would back down, become more reasonable, and admit the truth.

Unfortunately, it had become very clear, very soon, that McNunn was not going to reason with anyone.

He was not going to change his story. Ever.

Having realised this though, Jonathan had then got the measure of the man. He was the type that needed to be in control. Unless he got the chance to finish a sentence, he would slowly lose it.

Jonathan had known that McNunn was trying to threaten him, but he had also realised that by preventing him from finishing the threat, it took away all his power.

So instead of getting an apology, Jonathan had played with the man and it had made him feel good. Sally would be proud of him for standing up for himself.

There was once a time, when Jonathan was younger, fitter, and stronger, when having found a man's weakness, he would have been able to use it to his advantage.

At first, when Jonathan had hung up the phone, he had visions of doing something grand, perhaps standing up for himself against McNunn.

He had a little money in the bank. Maybe he should hire a lawyer himself, and fight for the truth to come out in court?

Jonathan started to cough again. He was also finding it hard to breathe.

Why was he feeling so awful?

Actually, he didn't feel well at all.

Perhaps he should go back to bed and lie down.

Yes, that was a good idea. He would lie down and make a plan, and tomorrow he would do something about it.

Tomorrow he would start to fight back.

As soon as he got back from the doctor's appointment up at the hospital.

Once the doctor had helped him get better, Jonathan would make Sally proud. He would stand up for himself again, fight McNunn in court, and force him to apologize publicly.

And to say that he was sorry.

Chapter 16

Portobello

Edinburgh

Monday 8.01 a.m.

The loud shrill of the telephone cut through Jonathan's dream like a welder's blowtorch, slicing through the happiness he was experiencing and dragging him from a summer's day spent with Sally in the Highlands, to the cold reality of Monday morning.

Choking on some blood, Jonathan quickly raised himself to a sitting position, and spat the contents of his mouth out onto his handkerchief.

There was a lot of blood. Bright and red.

Looking up and around him, Jonathan fought to clear his mind.

What was that noise?

Ah...the phone!

Jonathan half-turned, lowered his legs over the side of the bed and tested the ground underneath to see if it was stable enough to hold him up. Recently, he could never be sure...

Launching himself into a standing position, he let his momentum carry him forward into another half-step, paused, then repeated the process. Soon he was stumbling successfully towards the phone in the downstairs hallway.

It took him a few minutes to reach it, but when he got there it was still ringing insistently.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is that Mr Stuart?"

"Yes. It is..."

Cough, cough...

"Mr Stuart, hello, this is David from Swiss Insurance. I hope you don't mind me calling you so early, but I was rather worried about you. May I ask, are you okay?"

Cough. Cough.

"David. Thanks for calling me. I appreciate it. I'm okay..." Cough, cough. "Actually, to tell you truth, I'm not feeling great. Do you mind if I get a seat from the kitchen? I think I need to sit down."

"Shall I call back?"

"No, please just wait a tick..."

David hung on at the other end, despite it taking several minutes for Mr Stuart to return to the phone, during which David received several glances from his supervisor.

His return was heralded by a bout of coughing.

"Mr Stuart, that cough sounds very bad. Are you going to see anyone about it?"

"Yes, funny you should ask. I'm going to the hospital today. I'm getting it checked out. I can't remember ever feeling as ill as this, ever!"

"Oh dear, is there anything I can do to help? Do you need me to call you a taxi to get you to the doctor, or anything?"

"That's nice of you David." Cough. "Sorry, blasted cough. I think the taxi is already taken care of. The doctor has arranged it for me. Listen, I'm sorry about the other day. I think I fainted after I spoke to you, and when I woke up, you were gone."

"I did hang on for a long time... I was really worried about you, but then the office closed and we had to go home..." David said, telling the truth, then suddenly worrying that he may have given the game away about the true location of the call centre. With those working hours, they obviously weren't in the UK. But then David realised he didn't care. He wasn't going to lie to Mr Stuart anymore."Why did you faint? Have you seen anyone yet?"

"Not yet. I'll mention it to the doctor later. I don't know why I fainted. I think the stress of everything just got to me. To be honest, I'm finding it really difficult to deal with all the business about the car... It's all so complicated. I thought you guys were meant to help us out of a difficult situation when we had an accident and things like this happened. It just seems like the complete opposite is happening."

David swallowed and looked briefly at his supervisor who was prowling like a panther up and down the rows of call centre workers, ensuring that no one was being too helpful.

"Mr Stuart...., I'd like to say sorry to you for all the stress we're causing you."

"Aha! An apology. You just said you were sorry! Wonderful. I appreciate it. You know, sometimes that's all it takes. I know..." cough, cough," excuse me, I know that you're just trying your best to help and that most of this is probably my own stupid fault..." cough, cough... "But I really appreciate the apology. Actually, if I could just get one more, it would be even better!"

"What do you mean?"

"The guy who drove into me... Thomas McNunn. Excuse the French, but he's a lying bastard. He knows he drove into me and smashed up my car, and for whatever reason, he's lying through his teeth just to save a few pounds on fixing his car." Cough, cough, cough! "Sorry, David, it makes my blood boil just thinking about him. Bloody liar!"

At the other end of the phone, David was starting to sweat, and it wasn't because of the heat in India. The call centre was perfectly cool today and all the ventilation systems were working fine. No expense was being spared today on keeping the employees cool while they screwed the customers out of their money. David was feeling terrible for what Mr Stuart was going through. Despite what David had managed to persuade him to believe, it was not all his fault. It was standard company policy to try and ensure that the scales were always tipped in the company's favour: excesses were as high as possible, legal expenses avoided as often as possible, car valuations were always low... VERY low... etc. etc. David knew all the games his company played. Mr Stuart's case demonstrated them all. Worst of all was that the latest report showed very clearly that the damage done to Mr Stuart's car was more than that done to the man who caused it: yes, Swiss Insurance knew that the other claimant, Mr Thomas McNunn was almost definitely to blame. Years of experience and processing the lies that so many people were perfectly prepared to spew out in the hope of shifting the blame from themselves to anyone else possible, clearly told the assessors at Swiss Insurance that McNunn was lying through his teeth. The problem for Mr Stuart was that once all the valuations and projected costs were input into the system, the calculations carried out by the computer stated quite simply that if Swiss Insurance went with Mr Stuart's story and assigned the fault to McNunn, then the cost of fixing Mr Stuart's car would be hundreds of pounds more than fixing Mr McNunn's. If the company wanted to save money, they should believe Mr Thomas McNunn and screw over Mr Stuart. Which they had proceeded to do.

It was good company policy.

Ignore the truth. Count the company's pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves. Don't worry about the customer.

"Mr Stuart, are you okay?" David spoke next, wiping his forehead free of sweat.

"Don't worry. I'll be okay." Cough. "I called him, you know. Again. I don't know if I told you already, but I called him once before to try and reason with him. I wanted to persuade him to settle with me privately and not make any Insurance Claim. Both times I called him he was very rude to me and told me to leave him alone..."

"What do you mean? How?"

"Well, he basically told me to ' _fuck off_ ' and never to call him back. I don't understand people like that. They don't seem to care about other people at all. Anyway, after you and I spoke on Saturday I realised that the chances of me getting my car back so long as you believed what he was saying was practically nil, so I called him to try to reason with him. I said that I accepted that I probably couldn't cope with dealing with you any more. Sorry, I meant the insurance company, and that all I wanted was for him to admit he was to blame and say he was sorry. Just to _apologise_ to me _personally_ and say that he was sorry. That's all I wanted. A simple apology..."

"And, what happened? Did he apologise?" David asked, drawn into the story and hoping for the best.

"What do you think? Actually, this time he literally did tell me to fuck off...no sorry, his actual words were 'fuck you'... Listen, David, sorry for all the swearing." Cough, cough, cough... "I'm angry and upset, and I think this is all making me ill, to be honest, but I was hoping that the man would show an ounce of decency and just admit to me off the record that he was at fault. All I wanted was an apology. _An apology_. Instead he refused and was offensive to me. What sort of person behaves like that? You know, my wife Sally, she had a word for people like him. A good word which describes them exactly."

"What word was that?"

"Scum."

David felt slightly sick.

He knew exactly what Sally had been talking about. She was right.

And looking around the other highly trained thieves that sat in the seats about him in the call centre, David knew that he was just as bad as all the McNunn's in the world.

He and everyone else who worked at Swiss Insurance were scum too.

Scum.

Just then the person sitting beside David answered another call, and David heard the beginning of his pitch.

"Hello, this is Swiss Insurance, can I help you?"

In that moment, something snapped in the back of David's mind.

Enough was enough.

David may be scum now but before he joined this place Anand had been a good person. A decent person. A real person.

It was not too late.

There was still time to help Mr Stuart.

"Mr Stuart, can I tell you something? My name... my name is not David... it's Anand. _Anand Mhasalkar_. I'm afraid I've not been as helpful as I maybe could have been. I'd like to change that. All of it. Hello?... Hello, Mr Stuart?... Jonathan?... Are you still there?..."

\-------------------------

Portobello

Monday Morning

8.58 a.m.

David hung up the phone.

The policeman had just informed him that after consultation with the ambulance driver, who Anand had first called and alerted, they had forced entry to the front door of Mr Stuart's house and found him unconscious in the hallway.

He was still alive, but weak, and the ambulance had just that moment whisked him away to the local hospital.

Anand had explained to the policeman that Mr Jonathan Stuart had told him that he was expecting to go to the hospital that morning for an existing appointment. He described the symptoms that he had observed from Mr Stuart over the phone, including the fact that Mr Stuart was very stressed and feeling very ill. He also related to the police officer the occurrences of the other day, Saturday, when Mr Stuart had also fainted whilst he had been on the phone to the insurance company.

Anand was keen to make sure that the authorities in Edinburgh had all the facts.

After he hung up the phone, Anand stared into space for a while, in a daze.

A manager had seen him and come across and encouraged him to return to the phone. To go back to the work. Unhelping other people.

Anand had stood up, excusing himself for feeling very ill.

Making it to the toilet just in time, he threw up violently.

Shaking, and scared, Anand worried that he had just caused Mr Stuart to have a heart-attack.

If so, and Mr Stuart died, would it be Anand's fault?

A thought began to torture him, running around in his brain, over and over again:

had he, Anand Mhasalkar, just killed someone?

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

Monday

9 a.m. G.M.T.

Operations Room, Basement

"Who wants to go first?" DCI Campbell McKenzie asked, standing at the front of the room, hands extended outwards in an encouraging gesture.

"I have something," P.C. Marilyn Thomson stood up.

"The floor is yours..." McKenzie nodded towards her.

"To cut a long story short, I was talking to one of my contacts in Leith, trying to find anyone who knew anything we should know about Keith Urqhart, and she said that the word on the street is that he was bent. The word is already out that he's dead. And get this, apparently, he was selling drugs to Ivor Petrovsky. A lot of drugs. But just the knowledge that he was working for or with Petrovsky made a lot of people keep their distance from him."

"Very interesting. Perhaps that explains the money that was in his account? Had Petrovsky bought some drugs off him recently?" Campbell McKenzie turned to the person who was scribbling notes on the big white board and watched the connection being recorded. "So, there could be a direct involvement with Petrovsky that we need to explore. Two questions, if Petrovsky was buying drugs from a police officer, where was Urqhart getting the drugs from? Second question, if Urqhart was a supplier to Petrovsky, could there be a connection between the drug dealing and Urqhart's death?"

DI Wessex stood up and informed everyone else of her activities since the last session.

"On Saturday I sent a sample of dog hairs which we had found on our clothes after we visited Petrovsky's house, to the lab. I'm hoping to get the results back today or tomorrow morning. With any luck, the dog hairs will belong to the same dog as that hair found on Urqhart's body."

"Good. At last we're getting some momentum going." McKenzie clapped his hands together.

The rest of the meeting didn't reveal anything new.

Finishing up, McKenzie summarised some of the main areas of investigation to be pursued.

"One: where did the money in the accounts come from? Can we establish a link to Petrovsky? Two: Dog hairs - do our hairs all come from Petrovsky's dog? Three: was Urqhart a drug dealer? If so, what gang was he getting his supply from? Four: has anyone been found dead with their throats ripped out in the past five years... possibly by an Alsatian? We need to check the unsolved cases, newspapers, and hospitals. Undertakers too. Five: are there any known connections between Urqhart and any of the other crime lords in Scotland? I have reason to believe there might be... I just want some independent thoughts on this... Six: how did Urqhart get up to the top of the Crags without being seen? Someone had to have seen something. We need to speed up the analysis of the CCTV cameras of the cars going into the park, and the video feeds of the major pathways that led into the park. Surely, if he didn't drive, we must have something on film somewhere with him walking? And last but not least for today... We need to start making enquiries in the force itself about Urqhart. If he was bent, how come his record is so clean? How long has he been bent? Was he working alone? Does anyone in Police Scotland know anything that we need to know?"

As he dismissed the team, McKenzie began to worry for the first time whether they were about to open a big can of worms.

Was Urqhart acting alone? If not, how far did this go?

\-------------------------

Longniddry Bents

Edinburgh

Monday 2 p.m. G.M.T.

Tommy McNunn stepped out of his car, and stood up straight, stretching his spine and breathing in the salt air from the sea.

Above him the seagulls circled and dived, their squawking filling the air.

"Boss?" one of the two heavies that always accompanied him asked.

"No, come with me to the edge of the beach, but give me some space. I want to be alone."

"Sure thing, Mr McNunn."

The two gorillas followed him through the sand dunes to the beach, and took up positions about a hundred metres from each other, so that they could each easily survey the long, open expanse of wild beach.

The sun was shining, the sky was clear of clouds, and there was a light breeze. It was a cracking day, and Tommy knew that this was probably one of the last beautiful days of the year. From here on in, the days would get shorter, darker, more depressing, and incredibly cold.

Tommy hated the cold.

The long, sandy beach at Longniddry Bents was one of Tommy's favourite places. It was the place he came to free his mind. To think. And to plan.

Several miles outside of Edinburgh, it sat near the mouth of the Firth of Forth, curling inwards back towards the city. On the left side of the river you had a fantastic view of Scotland's capital and the Pentland Hills which formed a dramatic backdrop to the city - and where several years ago Tommy had purchased a small farm beside a reservoir and built himself a small nuclear bunker, the farm being another of his favourite places. On the right, the view swept across the Kingdom of Fife, the land on the other side of the Firth which bounded the river Forth as it opened out and diffused into the sea.

Incredibly, hardly anyone ever came here, save for a few people with metal detectors and some older folk who came to collect the pieces of coal that were washed up on the beach.

Tommy had always wondered where exactly the coal came from. So far, he had never figured it out.

He walked down across the sand and found himself a seat on a large rock. Lifting his head, he closed his eyes and let the sun fall on his face, absorbing the heat like a lizard, soaking up the rays and memorising the feeling to help him get through the harsh months ahead.

After a while he lowered his head and scanned the seascape all around him.

From where he sat, he could count at least ten oil rigs dotted around the deeper waters of the Firth.

They were a sign of the times.

The oil industry was not doing so great anymore, and as the wells ran dry or the remaining oil got too expensive to drill for, it seemed that the Firth of Forth was becoming a dumping ground for all the oil rigs that were no longer economical.

Tommy was glad he was not in the oil industry. In contrast to that, his industry, the crime and drugs industry, was booming.

Tommy knew that even though things were going well just now, things could get even better.

When times got tough, when the economy dived, as it was sure to continue to do so in the coming months, crime rocketed as people turned to drugs to escape.

Tommy controlled them both.

Not all of it. But much of it.

Tommy was not particularly well educated, but he was a good businessman, and he knew that in a growing marketplace, now was a good time to expand his business empire.

To expand, the choices were simple: find new product lines, merge with the competition, or take them over and acquire them.

Of the three, Tommy knew that the third option was the best.

A war was coming. A war of his own making. But it was a war that he was intending to win.

Taking out the piece of paper from his trouser pocket, he looked at the list of names he had written down.

Three names.

All lieutenants of his largest rival.

Tommy had already set in motion his plans to have the kingpin removed. All he had to do now was to ensure that those immediately beneath him would disappear shortly afterwards. If Tommy didn't ensure that they disappeared immediately after their boss, there was a significant risk that one of them would step into their boss's shoes and simply take over.

No, that couldn't happen.

There was not going to be any friendly business merger.

This was going to be a very hostile takeover.

With emphasis on the word hostile.

As soon as their boss went, they all had to disappear.

To die.

And soon.

Chapter 17

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Monday

10.00 p.m. India Standard Time (IST)

The day passed slowly for Anand. He lay on his bed underneath the mosquito net with a thin sheet pulled up over his head, trying to block out the world. His family were worried for him, and kept coming into the room to enquire after him, but he shooed them away, turning down food and even water.

What was happening to Mr Stuart? Was he alive or dead? How would he find out?

Anand's mind was awash with thoughts. If Mr Stuart was dead, if he'd had a heart attack caused by the stress in dealing with Anand and Swiss Insurance, how would he ever live with himself?

He felt physically sick. Worry. Stress. Fear. All mixed up together.

He knew that he couldn't go back to his work and carry on as normal. He couldn't do the same to others as he had done to Mr Stuart. Swiss Insurance was evil, and Anand had become evil too, but it was not too late to save himself. Or was it?

If he had killed Mr Stuart, how could he ever atone?

Yet, Anand knew that he had to go back to work. His family depended upon him for their survival, and without the money he earned from the call centre, they would starve.

Anand knew that life in India was not as easy as it was in England. But was it right to make a living by doing something which he knew was so wrong? Even if he needed the money to feed his family, was it not wrong to steal from others to feed yourself?

He lay there, tossing and turning. Fighting with his thoughts. Trying to find resolution to the emotions which wracked his body.

Perhaps, if he looked harder, he might be able to find another job. Now he had some experience in the call centre, maybe he could find work elsewhere? Surely, there had to be something else out there.

Anand was not without skills. In England, he had studied Computer Science and in his spare time between his studies, his hobby had been to hack into other people's computer networks. He knew a lot about computers and in England he would have been able to find a thousand jobs in IT, anywhere, but not here where his family lived. Here in the sprawling poverty stricken suburbs there was nothing. If he were to get a job in the city in IT, he would have to spend three hours travelling to work in the morning, and then another three home in the evening. There was nothing he wanted more than to find a job where his skills could be used, and he could continue to learn. But his family would not move and finding somewhere else to live in the centre of the city was not possible; they were poor, and Anand would never be able to save up enough money. He was shackled to a life without promise, and one which he hated, by his duty to his family.

So, although it seemed to be of no use, he was an expert at networking and his hobby was exploring the cyber world. At night time, when the rest of the family was asleep, he would often pull out his laptop and spend hours surfing the web, and talking to others in chat rooms and user groups. They gave him a link to another world that he was no longer physically part of, but in which he was actually quite well respected.

When Anand was growing up, when he was in his early teens, he had been precocious. He had taught himself everything he could about computers, and at night time, while others watched TV, he was playing with the websites of companies, trying to find a way to hack into them, and rewrite the words on their web pages. In the old days, kids in England who were having fun and rebelling against the older generation might have thrown stones through windows, or painted graffiti on walls. Anand always felt that he was doing nothing more than that: painting the modern equivalent of graffiti on the websites of large companies who should have known better than to have such poor network security that a spotty kid from India could hack his way in without being stopped. He never really felt guilty about it. He was just a kid.

As he grew older, defacing websites started to get boring. In search of new kicks, he started hanging out online with groups of like-minded hackers who were taking a stance against the evil corporations of the world by hacking into their networks. At first, it was all about just belonging to the virtual group of hackers, virtual because they only ever met on line and knew each other only by their avatar nicknames. They would hack a site, then boast to the others in the group about what they had achieved. They encouraged and goaded each other on to new successes, each hacker jealous of the successes of the other, and determined to prove themselves just as good if not better than their online friends.

At first, they did no real harm to anyone they targeted. They got their kicks from overcoming a company's network defences and finding out what they could see and do on a network, and what network privileges they could award themselves. They would pride themselves in hacking in, having a look around, and leaving before they were found out. However, as they got better at doing it, the rush they got from knowing themselves that they had been in a network and had left undetected began to diminish. They started to show off, the hackers leaving signs, pointing to their previous presence on a system and announcing their successes to the IT managers in a firm. Some began to steal information from networks and send it to others, or posting it in user forums, boasting of their successes. As the years passed, and their cyber skills increased, the attacks they launched got progressively more damaging to the companies they targeted. Some of the hackers began to affiliate themselves with political causes, while others realised that it was possible to use their cyber skills to make large amounts of money with practically no chance of ever being caught. According to the law, technically it was called fraud or theft, and it was wrong...but the problem was that for those who had the skills to do it, it was so simple! A new generation of high-tech criminals was born, skilfully hacking into bank accounts and 'freeing'/redirecting money online from one bank account to another - theirs -, or stealing company or government secrets and selling or sharing them with anyone who might be interested, including those who may pose a threat to national security.

For a while, Anand had been swept along with the tide. He found it exciting and loved the admiration and respect he got from other fellow hackers. However, perhaps unlike others in the hacking community, he came from a loving, caring and law-abiding family. Coupled with his faith, which taught him clearly the difference between right and wrong, Anand had started to become more and more uncomfortable with some of the acts that he and his peers were committing. Anand worried not only about breaking the law, but also about what his father would say to him if he found out.

Anand loved computers. He loved to hack. But he didn't want to cross that line that some other hackers had, and from which there seemed to be no simple return. Instead, he determined that he would become a cyber expert, and applied for and was granted a place at university to study Computer Science. Supported and encouraged by his family, he had moved to Birmingham and taken up his studies.

For almost two years he had studied and learned everything he could about computing, computers and the cyber world. He had dreamed of going to live in London or California and to be a part of a start-up that built the first thinking robots.

Anand was going to change the world!

For a long time, it seemed that his plan might come true. He only had a year to go and he was one of the best on his course. Then one day, his father in India had dropped down dead.

Almost overnight, his world was destroyed.

Within a month, he was back in India, his second year exams not taken, and his dreams shattered.

Every morning he now woke up to the reality of his new life: their tiny, squalid apartment and a family to feed that depended upon him for their existence. He longed to escape, to run back to Birmingham, to live the dream again. His mind told him to go, now, soon, while he still could; his heart however, said 'no'.

That same heart, which now said 'no' once again.

No, to turning a blind eye while Swiss Insurance continued to destroy the lives of those who had paid for protection. No, to turning away from those who needed help. And no to allowing Mr Stuart to be their latest victim.

Lying on the floor on his apartment, he pulled back the cover from over his face, and smiled.

Anand Mhasalkar had a plan.

The path to atonement would be a long walk, but tomorrow Anand was going to take the first step.

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

Monday

5.15 p.m. G.M.T.

Operations Room, Basement

There was a buzz in the air, which Campbell felt the moment he stepped foot in the operations room.

Until further notice, the team assigned to Operation Queens were to meet twice a day for briefings, giving everyone the opportunity to learn and quickly respond to anything that any other member of the team found out.

In murder cases like these, the first few weeks were critical. In the early stages of an investigation, when the tracks of any crime were still fresh, it was possible for those involved on a case to meet and pull together individual clues that quite rapidly built together to form a single intelligence picture.

It was quite common for cases to be solved during a briefing when an operations team would share a 'Eureka' moment, which would be followed hours later by an arrest.

McKenzie sensed, and hoped, that with luck, they were just about to experience one of those times.

"Good evening everyone. Who wants to go first? I can see a few smiles on faces, so I'm hoping you've got some good news to share? Okay, DC Roberts, you can lead off..."

A tall man with cauliflower ears and a broken nose, probably a forward in a rugby team somewhere, stood up and opened his notebook, although he spoke without reference to his notes.

"I just had a very interesting conversation with one of the boys from the Digital Forensics squad in Fettes Avenue. I'd previously asked them to look at the phone records of Keith Urqhart, and following yesterday morning's meeting, I asked them to check the phone records of Ivor Petrovsky and see if there was anything interesting that might be worth some attention. We obviously needed a warrant for Urqhart, which we got, but as you might expect, it turns out that Petrovsky is already a subject of interest under an existing warrant, which regularly gets renewed. At first pass, there was nothing particularly interesting about Urqhart's phone records. He has several phones, and he's made lots of calls, and we're busy calling the various numbers we have in his records covering the past few months to see if we can make any interesting connections, but that will take some more time yet. So far some of the numbers have turned out to belong to a few known names connected with the Edinburgh drug scene, but we can't tell yet if they were professional contacts, or private ones. My suspicion is that a few of the calls made on his private phone will turn out to be illegal activity, and we'll get some leads from them." DC Roberts took a deep breath, and looked around the room quickly, before delivering the rest of his news.

"The good news is that the Digital Forensics guys have just called back to say that four days before the death of Urqhart, Petrovsky called one of Urqhart's private phones directly from his private mobile phone at twenty minutes after one in the morning. It only rang twice, then Petrovsky immediately hung up. However, the phone records on Urqhart's phone, the one that Petrovsky had just called, showed that two minutes after Petrovsky had dialled that number from his private phone, Urqhart received another call. It was late, so two phone calls in quick succession at that time to the same phone are of interest, particularly when the first came from Petrovsky. Incidentally, Urqhart's phone records from his service provider don't show the first missed call, because it was not answered. But Petrovsky's does, because it's part of the records the Fettes boys get from the Lawful Intercept warrant, where they record the data directly themselves using electronic probes on the phone network. However, the second call does show up on the same phone of Urqhart, and from that we can get the number which called him. And this is the good part... it's another of Petrovsky's phones, but one which he rarely uses."

A few smiles appeared on the faces of those in the Operation's Room.

"So, the scenario is likely this: it's late. Petrovsky is tired and he makes a mistake. He calls Urqhart directly on his own main private phone, quickly realises his mistake and then hangs up. He then picks up another phone, this time one which he only uses for making dodgy calls to people who are in some way involved with him in something probably illegal, and he calls Urqhart again. Urqhart picks up. They speak for ten minutes."

"Do you know what they talked about?" Campbell asked, voicing the question everyone had on their lips.

"No, not yet. But give me twenty-four hours and we will. Petrovsky is under an LI warrant signed by the Home Secretary. All his calls are being recorded. All the Fettes boys have to do now is to conduct a quick search of the archives, find the call that was made and listen to the recording. There's a bit of paperwork involved, but not much. With any luck we'll have the recording tomorrow."

"Brilliant!" McKenzie clapped his hands together. "So, we now have a direct connection between Petrovsky and Urqhart, a serving police officer, recorded at a very unusual hour, and only days before he was murdered. I can't wait to hear the conversation. Excellent work, Roberts. Well done. You come see me the moment you have the voice print, okay?"

"Yes, sir, I will." Roberts nodded.

"Good. And that gives us a nice link into the next piece of news, which DI Wessex will tell us about. Wessex?"

Wessex stood up, and immediately drew everyone's attention, not all of which was on a totally professional basis.

"As discussed yesterday, we sent some hairs to the lab for analysis which we think came from Ivor Petrovsky's dog. Our hope was that they would match the DNA of the dog hair found stuck to Urqhart's skin by the adhesive from the duct tape that was used to bind his arms, legs and jaw. And..." her eyes twinkled in the light as she glanced around the room, perhaps dragging out the moment a little too theatrically, "... And we were right. There was a perfect match!"

Everyone exhaled at once. Two officers banged their hands on the desks they were sitting at.

So, Campbell had been right. This was one of those special meetings.

The rest of the briefing didn't yield anything quite so interesting, and soon the meeting was ending.

"Okay, listen up," Campbell dived in. "It's all good work. Thank you! So, in summary, so far today we've just established a direct link between Petrovsky and Urqhart days before he was murdered. In addition, we've just recorded evidence that links Petrovsky's dog directly to the deceased. Obviously, it is now highly likely that Urqhart was tied up and bound in the presence of the dog, or somewhere where the dog frequents. We also have large amounts of cash going into Urqhart's bank accounts, probably with a drugs connection of some sort. And we all know Petrovsky is one of the biggest drug dealers this side of Moscow. We also have independent reports that Petrovsky was buying drugs from Urqhart, which links them as in business together."

"Is it enough?" Wessex asked.

"It's certainly enough for us to make an arrest. But I suggest we hold off for now. I think we need to talk to the Procurator Fiscal and get his opinion. Also, this time tomorrow we'll hopefully have the content of the voice conversation. Odds are that it will be something good."

"In the meantime, do we arrest the dog?" Wessex asked.

Several people laughed, and Campbell smiled.

"Not yet. But I've already got a warrant to have it taken into custody, and tonight I'm going to prepare an arrest warrant for Petrovsky. With any luck, by this time tomorrow, we'll have him locked up. Not quite job done, because we still need a motive, and as many more details as possible. But it's looking good. Very good indeed."

As the police officers began to file out of the operations room, Wessex caught McKenzie staring at the white board and the notes that now covered it. She recognised the look on his face.

"Everything okay? It's been a good day, hasn't it?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"So, what's up?" she asked.

"I don't know. Something, but I don't know what. Yet."

"You really thought it was McNunn, didn't you?"

Campbell turned to her and looked her straight in the eye, his expression quite serious.

"Yes, I did." Then his face softened, "But, hey, you can't be right all the time, can you?" he joked, very unconvincingly as he shrugged and eased himself out of the room before her, leaving her to examine the white-board alone in his absence.

She knew McKenzie very well.

The problem was, that she knew that McKenzie was seldom, if ever wrong.

She knew then that if McKenzie was going to be convinced of Petrovsky's guilt, she needed to produce some more evidence.

What evidence, she didn't know.

But she would find it.

With a little help.

Chapter 18

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Monday

8.00 a.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand had slept very little the night before. When he did manage to finally fall asleep, his dreams were vivid, and disturbing. He dreamt he was in Scotland, in a football stadium, surrounded by thousands of fellow co-workers from Swiss Insurance. They were all working on their computers and laughing loudly at the misery of those they were talking to on their phones.

A man walked on to the football pitch, - a man whom Anand immediately recognised to be Jonathan Stuart even though he had never met him - and a deathly silence fell on the stadium. Then one by one, just as the man reached the centre of the pitch, all the Swiss Insurance employees rose to their feet, and started humming the same note loudly.

The man fell to the ground, clutching his chest, and rolled onto his back.

Crying out in pain, the man shouted loudly 'Say you're sorry! Just say you're sorry!'

All the employees in the stands then started throwing stones at Jonathan, which piled up on top of him, and quickly buried him.

Anand heard the voice of his manager shouting, "Well done, everyone, ... now get back to the phones!"

Anand had woken in a cold sweat.

Shaking.

It had taken a while for the remnants of the dream to disperse from his head, and even when he had washed, dressed and set off for work, he could still experience the dream.

The feeling it left with him pervaded his thoughts for the rest of the day, a living nightmare that went on and on.

Anand struggled to concentrate throughout the day.

He worked shifts, sometimes coming in the morning to support other English speaking countries in other time zones, many of which were east of India, and were ahead of their time zone.

Other days, he started only when the UK came online, and worked until the early evening. On those days, he would rely upon his siblings making their own evening meal and getting themselves ready for bed. He would arrive home late, check on the family and then spend several hours surfing the web or hacking his way around networks or websites around the world.

Today was one of the early shifts, and he spent the whole day wondering about one thing, and one thing only: was Jonathan Stuart dead?

How would he find out?

He tried calling his home number numerous times, and even looked up the names of several hospitals in the Edinburgh area, and was contemplating calling them and pretending to be a relative. Ultimately however, he didn't.

Hopefully one day soon, Jonathan would answer the phone at home, and everything would be okay.

It was only thanks to the rigorous training that Anand had previously mastered that he managed to get through the day, answering the phones and talking to customers on auto-pilot. Although today, unlike ever before, he genuinely did try to be friendly, and also tried his best to be useful, giving advice and words of wisdom to the callers whenever he could.

Several times he had even, genuinely, managed to actually, _really_ , help someone.

It was a curious feeling. Rewarding. Almost pleasurable.

By the end of the day, his call times had exceeded the required company average, and a manager had come to him and warned him to work faster, speak less, and move onto the next caller quicker.

In other words, "Stop helping! You're costing the company money!"

When he finally managed to leave the call centre he could actually count the number of times someone had genuinely thanked him for his help on two hands.

People, in their time of need, had made a point of saying "Thank you!"

The feeling this curious sequence of events stirred within Anand was wonderful. It was akin to the thrill he would get when he managed to circumvent the defences of a company network and hack into their systems.

It gave him a buzz.

Which he loved.

And which he quickly identified as having the propensity to become addictive.

The journey home through the suburbs took slightly longer than normal that evening, and it gave him plenty of time to try to clear his mind and plan the evening ahead.

More than ever, he was determined to embark on his path of atonement, and tonight he knew exactly how the journey would start: he was going to get Mr Stuart's car fixed and delivered back to his house, so that when Jonathan arrived home, his car would be waiting for him.

Cleaned. Polished. Looking brand new.

Just thinking about the surprise Jonathan would get made Anand smile for the rest of the evening.

\-------------------------

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

Tuesday

5.15 p.m. G.M.T.

Operations Room, Basement

DCI Campbell McKenzie stood at the front of the briefing, signalling for the excited voices in the room to quieten down.

"Okay, welcome back everyone. I think you've probably all heard that we've got the voice print from Petrovsky's conversation with Urqhart. DC Roberts brought it to me first thing this afternoon, and as a consequence of what I heard, we've decided to make an arrest this evening. DC Roberts, why don't you take the floor. This is your moment of glory, and I don't want to steal it from you..."

DC Roberts stood up and walked to the front of the room.

"Thank you, but it's really down to the boys at Fettes Row. They did the leg work for us. A quick recap: this is the voice recording of the call that Petrovsky made to Urqhart four days before he was murdered, the call being made at 1.24 a.m."

Roberts nodded at the officer standing by the desk in the corner who was controlling the sound system.

A loud guttural voice filled the room, the voice with a Russian accent unmistakably that of Ivor Petrovsky.

"Urqhart?", the caller enquired.

"Yep, that's me. Who are you? Do you know what the bloody time is?"

"You know who ze fuck I am? I'm person you sold all your shit to some few weeks ago. You know, same shit I so kindly bought off you, because no one else would touch it!"

"Ivor? Sorry, I couldn't see the number on the display. Number withheld."

"Deliberately. I'm no fucking amateur. And this is safe SIMM card. No one knows it belongs with me. And no one ever will!"

There were a few smiles in the briefing room at this statement. It seemed that Petrovsky was an amateur after all.

"So, Urqhart. The boys in my private laboratory just gave me interesting news. They say they analysed stuff you sold me, and apart from some junk someone added to bulk it up, your coke has same signature as stuff stolen from me several months ago. They even say they think it might be same coke that was stolen from me. i.e. that bloody stuff you sold me, might have been mine all fucking time!"

There was the sound of Urqhart coughing and swallowing hard.

"I don't understand? What are you saying? That I stole a load of coke from you and then sold it back to you?"

"Could be. Sure could look like that, from where I'm sitting."

"Listen, you've got to believe me Mr Petrovsky, I'd have to be bloody daft to do that. There's no way I'd even think about it."

"So, where did you get zis shit from then? You have ten seconds for telling me, then I hang up."

A moment's silence, an intake of breath, the sound of Urqhart's brain cells exploding.

"I found it. In a car. Belonging to someone we'd just arrested. There was a ton of the stuff in the back of the boot. I was the only officer to see it, so I quickly threw a couple of kilos behind a hedge before any of the other officers noticed, and then I pretended to have found what was left. I went back that night and collected the stuff I'd hidden. I have no idea where it came from beforehand. The twat we arrested refused to speak up or divulge anything. Are you sure that it was yours?"

"Not yet. My boys are running more tests, better tests. I know tomorrow morning. And iv I find out stuff was mine in first place, you have twenty-four hours for giving me my money back."

"I can't. Not anymore. I laundered the money by putting it into my pension plan. No questions asked. I even got a tax rebate on it. It's in there now, and I can't get it back out."

"Did you just hear what I said? If it turns out tomorrow that shit was my shit in first place, I gonna fucking kill you. Do you understand me? No one takes piss out of Ivor Petrovsky. I've got reputation for thinking of."

"But, even if it was your stuff in the first place, I didn't know."

"Not my problem. I suggest you borrow some money pretty fucking sharpish. You idiot. I give you until tomorrow night. Only. Then if drugs were mine in first place, I let my wolf play with your neck, or find some other interesting way for make you die."

The line went dead, with Petrovsky presumably having hung up.

Back in the briefing room, DCI McKenzie looked around his team and clapped his hands together in appreciation of what they had all just heard.

"So, now we have a motive. Petrovsky just threatened to kill Urqhart, and we could easily presume that further tests came back showing conclusively that it was his drugs that Urqhart had sold back to him, and that Urqhart was unable to pay him back his money. We all know from previous experience that Petrovsky is a particularly violent criminal, so having made the threat it would be totally in character to carry it out."

"And..." DC Roberts started to add, "If Petrovsky was able to prove that the drugs were his in the first place, then he would have a strong incentive to make an example of Urqhart. Everyone who crosses Petrovsky dies or gets mutilated in some horribly inventive way. That's how he commands respect. By instilling fear and loathing in everyone. When he says jump, everyone jumps, or else they might find they don't have any legs to jump with."

"Good point. That's a second motive. To protect his reputation as a hard nut."

"Did we ever make any progress on finding out if Petrovsky has actually used his dog to kill someone?" DI Wessex asked the room. "He mentioned it again just then. Maybe it's not a joke or an idle warning."

A middle-aged, brown haired CID officer with bright red cheeks stood up.

"Actually, I have some news on that. Just after lunch I got a call from one of the morgues. I'd sent an email out to the hospitals, the coroners, the morgues...basically everywhere that dead bodies might turn up, and I asked just that -'had anyone seen a body coming in over the past year or two that looked like it'd had its throat ripped out?' It turns out that there's a body in the morgue in Glasgow, not yet identified and therefore still being kept on ice, that was found in the woods last February minus most of its throat. I've had a few photos sent over, and they're pretty gruesome."

"This is just a thought, but if we were to get a saliva swab from Petrovsky's dog, can you ask them if they think it might still be possible to look at the throat and see if there's any possibility of finding a dog's DNA on the flesh around the neck wound? Would anything like that be possible after such a long time?" McKenzie asked.

"I've already asked. About examining the neck wound that is. They've already agreed to look for any traces of fluids that could have been left by a dog. Even better if we can send them a sample of the saliva from Petrovsky's dog."

"Excellent, good work Detective Lynch. Please follow this one through and get the results as soon as you can. It goes without saying that it would be great if we could connect Petrovsky to another death, especially one that he may have boasted about to two police officers!"

McKenzie called out two names.

"Collins and Robertson, I want you to rustle up some uniformed officers and go back round the houses interviewing anyone who may have been in the area on the night of the murder, but this time with photos of Petrovsky. For now, let's park the idea that McNunn may have been there. Hopefully one of the students or a late-night dog walker may have seen Petrovsky somewhere close. And what about ANPR? Can we see if there's a hit on the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system that might give us the location of Petrovsky or any of his cars near the Queen's Park? Whoever brought Urqhart to the cliffs had to get him there somehow."

"Can I ask a question?" DS Wilson asked from across the other side of the room. "We just heard Urqhart tell Petrovsky that he'd got the drugs from someone he had arrested. He mentioned that there was a 'ton of the stuff' in the back of a boot of a car they'd intercepted, and that he'd helped himself to some of it. What happened to the rest of the drugs? If you don't mind, I'd like to look through the records and see if I can pinpoint that arrest. A couple of things might come out of that. Firstly, depending when it was, we may still have some of the drugs that were recovered. If so, we could get it analysed. As Petrovsky said, it would give us a signature of the drugs that Petrovsky is dealing with. That could be useful in future. Secondly, if the drugs were stolen from Petrovsky and there was a lot of it, it's unlikely that a small, independent drug dealer had stolen them. They wouldn't have the balls to do something like that. It would've been done by a more powerful organisation. Which leads to the question, who did the drugs really belong to at the time the car was intercepted? I'd like to do some research and find out some more about that arrest and the characters involved. Like I said, I think maybe we could learn something useful from it."

McKenzie clapped his hands together in his characteristic fashion.

"Great thinking, Sergeant. And great questions. Please, pursue that line of thought wherever it takes you. And let me have the details as soon as you have them. I'd also like to know how Urqhart was involved in the interception of the car in the first place. Was it just luck, or part of some other case? And if so, which?"

DS Wilson nodded and made a few notes in his book.

After listening to the reports of a few other officers, and an offer by DS McIver to get a round of drinks down at the Pleasance Bar to celebrate his birthday, McKenzie wound the meeting up.

But not before calling for volunteers to assist in the arrest of Ivor Petrovsky.

Every hand in the room went up, including belatedly that of McIver who despondently saw the chances of a birthday drink evaporate, and who then finally gave into peer pressure and a reluctance to be the only person who didn't volunteer to bring Petrovsky in.

Two hours later, three police vans, a squad car and a dog van pulled up in the streets outside Petrovsky's mansion.

Thirty minutes later one Alsatian and a large, vicious Russian bulldog were in custody.

Neither was pleased. In fact, both were barking mad.

An hour after that, with all the paperwork completed and filed, the bar at the Pleasance was full after all. Everyone had plenty to celebrate.

As McKenzie stood at the bar, watching his team begin to put a few pints away, Wessex sidled up beside him.

"You're not smiling. Why not?"

McKenzie turned and looked at her. He'd already had two pints, and this was his third, and probably his last. After that, if he wanted a fourth, he would catch a taxi to the Fiddler's Arms and have one to himself while listening to a Ceilidh band playing in the background. McKenzie never got too drunk in front of those who worked for him. As Campbell looked at Wessex, she smiled back, cocking her head quizzically to one side, her green eyes catching the light and sparkling.

There was no doubt that Wessex was a very beautiful woman.

"I'm not sure that we've got our man."

"What do you mean?" Wessex asked immediately, laughing. "You just arrested him."

"With the evidence we've got, we'd be mad not to. The Procurator Fiscal says that we've got a good case, \- not solid - but enough to take him to court. Enough even to possibly get a conviction."

"So, what's the problem? I don't get you..."

"I know that everything is beginning to point to Petrovsky being behind the murder, but I'm still worried about it."

"Your gut feel still tells you that it's McNunn?"

"Yep. But it's more than that. We don't know what happened after that phone call? Maybe Petrovsky didn't decide to kill him. We've got a death threat, but it was conditional. What if at the end of the day, Urqhart was still in Petrovsky's good books? The motive wouldn't stand."

"Then why did Petrovsky kill him?"

"Maybe he didn't. Someone else did. McNunn, perhaps."

"But you just arrested Petrovsky? Why?"

McKenzie lifted his beer to his mouth and took a long, satisfying sip before turning to Wessex and smiling.

"McNunn is a bad criminal, and I'm determined to bring him down, but Petrovsky is a bastard. He is, without doubt, one of the lowest forms of humanity I have ever encountered in all my time on the force. We know what he's done. We know that he's responsible for the deaths and mutilations of umpteen others over the years, but we've never ever been able to pin anything on him. Ever. Three times he's walked free from the courts after a case against him has collapsed, twice because a couple of the witnesses disappeared and were never seen again, and once because the witness turned up on Portobello Beach in two separate pieces, minus fingernails and ears. Mark my words, Petrovsky is scum. So, even if he's not guilty of Urqhart's murder, if the evidence is enough to say that he is, perhaps it's not a bad thing if he gets sent down for it. We have to work with what we've got."

"And if the court throws it out? If they find the case too weak and the motive isn't strong enough?"

"Then at least we get him off the street for a while. Hopefully months. Let's see what the longest is that we can keep him in custody for before a trial."

Wessex studied McKenzie's face. She could tell he'd been thinking about this a lot.

"In the meantime, what happens if we come up with evidence against McNunn?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it. The optimal scenario is that we can link Petrovsky to the body in Glasgow, and McNunn to Urqhart. That way we get rid of both of them. A clean sweep. Two scum for the price of one. Anyway, this is all between you and me, understood? The team have done a good job, and I don't want them to doubt it."

Wessex nodded, and McKenzie noticed her eyes twinkle in the light again.

There was no doubting it. She was truly beautiful.

Perhaps it was time for him to leave.

Chapter 19

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Wednesday

00.55 a.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand's mind always came alive at night. He was a night owl who loved it when the world around him quietened down and left him alone to relax in his own solitude and to think.

He felt excited.

The best he had felt in months.

The best since he had started his job in the call centre.

The rest of his family were already asleep, and he was sitting alone in the other room of the flat, his laptop open in front of him on the floor, and his notebook and pen on the floor beside it.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and how to do it. It involved breaking the law and committing fraud against Swiss Insurance. Yet, he also knew that the chances of anyone finding out - even noticing it - were minimal. And even if they did, no one would ever be able to pin anything on him.

It was a no-brainer, really.

Within the next hour, Anand was going to arrange for Mr Stuart to get his car back.

The first step in the adventure was to boot up his laptop, and login to the Darknet through the TOR system, which was an alternative internet and used almost predominantly by criminals and others like him who deliberately sought to remain anonymous whilst surfing the web. The TOR system, based upon 'The Onion Routing' project pioneered by the US Navy and then made available to everyone else, hid the identity and location of anyone who used the TOR software and internet browser.

For criminals it was a godsend, for hackers a best friend, and for governments and police forces, their worst nightmare come true.

Once logged on to his system, Anand was free to do almost anything he wanted: using his skills he could go almost anywhere on the internet and penetrate any network defences he had the skills to overcome. The likelihood of his activity being detected was minimal, and even if he was, thanks to TOR, they would never be able to trace activity back to identify him.

In theory.

Of course, there was always the chance that the legend built up around the open source TOR project was not completely true. There were some stories emerging that hackers who had used and trusted TOR had suddenly been arrested and swept away by police forces in the middle of the night. Perhaps TOR was not as secure as it was cracked up to be. But Anand was prepared to take that risk. Personally, he believed that such stories had been started by the police to try to dissuade people from using it.

Anand was more worried about the idea of actually committing a fraud.

Doing wrong was, quite simply,...wrong.

Doing wrong intentionally, and after careful thinking and planning... that was even worse.

And, of course, there was always the possibility that he might do something really stupid, make a careless mistake and in spite of TOR, make it easy for the authorities to one day trace any cyber tracks back to him.

The consequences of that didn't bear thinking about it.

So, he determined not to think about it at all.

Anand already knew how to hack into his own company's network. He'd done it before many times, just for fun, without any real purpose or intention.

Of course, he had his own password, so once on the network he could get straight in if he wanted to, but that would be stupid.

Anand needed to be able to access the network and play around with the systems on it anonymously, drawing no attention to himself or his work at Swiss Insurance.

Anand would ensure that there would be no connection between what he was just about to do and Anand Mhasalkar, the dedicated and hardworking employee.

As long as he was careful, it would never be possible to establish that connection.

As long as he was careful.

A tingle passed down his spine as he thought of the risk. It was like electricity.

An amazing feeling.

Anand smiled.

For the first time in months he felt alive.

Then he began.

\-------------------------

Radisson Blu Hotel

The Royal Mile,

Edinburgh

Tuesday 11 p.m.

Tommy McNunn's tongue stretched out and gently licked Caroline's nipple.

She purred and stroked the back of his head as he did so.

"Tell me more," he commanded, although in a soft, friendly voice.

"That's all I know," she said. "He didn't take it well. Even threatened to kill the police officer who handcuffed him and pushed him into the back of the van. It didn't help his case at all."

"The man's a bastard. He gives the industry a bad name. He's uncouth. Has no class. Not like yours truly..."

His tongue abandoned the nipple and slowly coursed its way down and around the contours of her breast.

"So, what happens next?"

McNunn thought briefly about telling her his plans. The first of the executions would take place in two days. Followed swiftly by another one every couple of days when the opportunity presented itself.

With any luck, by the end of the week, all Petrovsky's lieutenants would be gone. The rest of his organisation would be looking around for a new leader. And if any of them thought about taking on the job themselves, death would be dealt to them swiftly, and without mercy.

Tommy had to be careful though not to stir too much interest from the police. It would be wrong to get the police too interested in their turf war, at least, not until Petrovsky was sentenced and was firmly behind bars.

Once inside, Petrovsky's days would be numbered.

He already had so many enemies inside that Tommy would probably not have needed to offer a bounty on his head, but being the perfectionist that he was, Tommy had arranged for several people to compete for the honour of claiming ten thousand pounds for ensuring Petrovsky's death.

Tommy was so lost in his own thoughts that he forgot to stop moving downwards, his tongue continuing to explore her body the further south he journeyed.

Caroline began to moan.

As Caroline pulled and pushed at Tommy's head, encouraging him to stay where he was and not to stop, Tommy, for once, obeyed.

\-------------------------

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Wednesday

01.55 a.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand had enjoyed himself. Enormously.

The job was almost done, and he was beginning to feel a sense of satisfaction the like of which he hadn't experienced in years. Not since passing the last set of exams he'd sat at university.

It had been years since he had tried anything this adventurous before. It was also probably the first time that he had done anything which was truly illegal.

That didn't worry him though. He was mentally past that now.

Once he had started, not for one moment did he stop to think that he was doing wrong or putting himself in possible danger. On the contrary, he was spurred on the whole time by an image he conjured up in his mind of Mr Stuart... Jonathan... opening his front door to see who had rung his doorbell, and discovering that it was the garage returning his fully repaired, hand-polished beloved Ford Mondeo. When Anand thought of the surprise and happiness this would bring Jonathan, it made him feel great.

The process for making that dream come true was relatively simple.

In essence he had only needed to change two documents.

First, he had hacked into the Swiss Insurance network and escalated his user privileges so that he could gain access to the different systems he needed. He had gone into the Jonathan's files and found the correspondence they had received from the garage that estimated the damage done to his car, and the value of the car itself. Copying the relevant documents into a graphics editor, he had edited copies of the documents so that they stated the value of Jonathans Ford Mondeo as being £1945, instead of £345. This made the cost of repairing the vehicle significantly less than the value of the vehicle, ensuring that the work would be automatically authorised and carried out when the file was next reviewed. All he had to do was to officially review the paperwork the next day back in the office and then call the garage in Scotland and tell them to fix the car. He would also instruct them to valet the car and polish it.

Secondly, Anand accessed the files that Swiss had amassed that related to Mr Tommy McNunn. Reviewing all the files, Anand was surprised to see that Mr McNunn owned quite a few very expensive cars, and seemed to be rather wealthy. Discovering this made Anand quite angry. 'Why had he been so mean to Jonathan? Why had he lied about the accident?' It didn't look like he was short of any cash.

The next part was a bit trickier and took considerably longer.

Anand copied the emails and correspondence that McNunn had contributed to his file, and digitally altered and edited them so that instead of blaming the accident on Jonathan, McNunn had effectively admitted to driving straight into the back of him. Once edited, he carefully saved the new files back on top of the old ones, using a cheap hacking package that he loved, to edit the dates of the files so that the new ones still had the dates of the old ones.

Luckily all the documents had been typed, and nothing involved copying or editing handwriting, which although difficult, would still have been possible.

He then went through all the paperwork on McNunn's side to make sure that there was nothing else he had to change. He made a few more edits, but nothing more significant.

Anand was confident that when he was finished with it all, it would be weeks before anyone checked the files again.

By then Jonathan would be driving his new car.

Anand wondered, if he ever finally managed to visit Edinburgh, would Jonathan keep his promise and drive him to see the Hibs play at Easter Road?

As he closed everything down and removed himself and any traces of his online presence from the Swiss Insurance Network, Anand couldn't help but think of the English hero Robin Hood.

Just then, Anand felt just like him.

When he finally crawled into bed on his mat in the other room, Anand slept soundly for the first time in months.

Chapter 20

The Fiddler's Arms

Near Greyfriars Bobby

Edinburgh

Wednesday

00.30 a.m. GMT

DCI McKenzie sat on one of the chairs at the back of the pub in the corner beside the Ceilidh band.

Campbell had been coming here for years.

He had always been a fan of Scottish folk music and loved the sounds that a few people with a couple of instruments could generate.

As the folk music washed over him, he could lose himself in his own thoughts, and relax.

The beer helped. As did the odd wee dram of whisky.

It was in fact here, sitting listening to the sound of the Scottish fiddle and a penny whistle playing alongside a bodhran- a round Irish flat drum played with a little stick - that he had solved some of his best cases.

Whilst he stared into space and hummed along with the melody, answers would just pop into his mind, connections would be made between elements of evidence that previously had no obvious connection, or ideas would form.

Tonight, McKenzie had ended up here for several different reasons.

First, after three pints it was time to distance himself from his team. And especially Wessex. For reasons he didn't want to admit to himself and couldn't entertain, ever.

Secondly, because something was troubling him.

He didn't know what it was, but he knew that this was as good a place as any to try to find out.

And lastly, because now he had got the bite, he fancied another drink.

McKenzie didn't drink so much anymore, and for the most part, was now very disciplined about how much alcohol he ever imbibed.

The problem was that McKenzie knew that he liked to drink. A lot.

A few years before it had threatened to become a problem.

Arguments with his wife had become commonplace, getting up for work in the morning had become harder, and his judgement at work had begun to suffer. He didn't drink as often as others he knew, but when he did drink, he drank way too much.

Luckily, he had recognised the danger he was facing, and with the help of Mrs McKenzie, he had managed to cut back before it became a real problem.

These days he never drank alone at home, and he only ever drank alcohol once or twice a month. If he did drink, it was always with friends or in a social context.

For now, he excused himself with the fact that he knew the fiddler in the band by his first name, so technically he was with a friend. Which meant he wasn't drinking alone.

It was half way through the fourth pint of the evening that the first of several questions materialised in his mind.

Question number one: who would be stupid enough to steal any drugs from Petrovsky? Either they were complete idiots, or knew exactly what they were doing, and probably did it for a reason. In which case, what was that reason? That would then be question number two.

Question number three: How big was the shipment of drugs? McKenzie was racking his brains to think of anything large that had been seized over the past months. The way Urqhart had described it, it sounded quite substantial.

Question number four... McKenzie's mind went blank. Blast, what was question number four? It had been on the tip of his tongue. And now it was gone.

Closing his eyes, and resting his head against the wall of the pub, he felt a wave of alcohol wash over him.

Beside him, the band started to play "Flower of Scotland" and his thoughts changed.

He started to hum the melody and then sing along.

Fifteen minutes later, resisting the urge to buy a wee, small dram of his favourite malt, he stepped outside and flagged down a taxi.

Time for bed.

It had been a long day.

\-------------------------

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Wednesday

1.55 p.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand had already tried ringing Jonathan's phone several times, but he had not picked up. The worry was killing him.

Where was he?

He would try again later. And then again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day until he managed to speak to him.

Today was Wednesday.

The car would be fixed by Friday.

For now, that was his only consolation. Anand had spent the best part of his day imagining the look of surprise on Jonathan's face as he stepped outside his door in Portobello, Scotland and saw the car sitting on the road outside. Repaired. Polished. Looking almost new.

Anand had personally called the garage to make sure that they had received the email that he had sent them earlier that morning, authorising the full repair of the car.

He had told them to try to do whatever they could to get the car fixed and back to its owner by the weekend, and they were only too happy to oblige.

They were just a small garage, business had not been so good recently and Anand had promised to fast-track the electronic payment for their repairs, as soon as he got notification of their completion.

For the rest of the day, Anand had kept his head down and answered as many calls as possible, trying to avoid unnecessary attention from any manager wandering around.

Answering the phones was one thing, but he was finding it incredibly difficult to continue being so unhelpful. Several times in the past few days he had helped people. Actually _helped_ people. Given them good advice. Recommended that cars should be fixed instead of being scrapped. Or tweaked the information they provided in their favour instead of the insurance company.

Each time he had done it, he had felt a rush of adrenaline. It made him feel great.

Already he was addicted to it.

Addicted to helping people and providing _real_ customer service.

It was a new world, and Anand was loving it!

Anand knew that he had to be careful. The phone calls were being monitored and he couldn't behave in a way that would bring him too much attention. He needed the job. His family needed the job. Anand couldn't afford to mess it up.

For the most part he would still have to toe the company line.

He could, however, be creative. And clever.

Once again, he thought about the English hero Robin Hood.

From now on that was who he was going to emulate.

Whenever possible, he was going to turn the tables on his company and steal from the rich and redistribute some of its wealth to the poor.

"Hello?" Anand said, taking his next caller. "How can I _help_ you?"

Chapter 21

St Leonards Police Station,

Edinburgh

One day later.

Friday

8.30 a.m. G.M.T.

Operations Room, Basement

DCI McKenzie welcomed the team and recounted the highlights of their progress of the past few weeks since the body of Keith Urqhart had been found at the bottom of the crags.

"So, now we have Petrovsky in custody," McKenzie rounded up his summary, "... it's essential we get as much evidence as possible to make him stay there. Agreed? Good! So, who wants to go first this morning?"

Several hands went up.

" Detective Lynch?"

"Yes, thanks. I've got some news back from Glasgow on the body in the morgue. It's good news. They took a detailed look at the wound on the throat of the body they have on ice over there, and they were able to detect and isolate some DNA from residue which has turned out to be the saliva of a dog. And it matches the sample I sent them. It seems almost certain that it was Petrovsky's dog that ripped the man's throat out."

"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!" McKenzie smiled, and thumped his two hands together at the same time as an excited murmur made its way around the briefing room.

Two other hands immediately shot into the air.

" Detective Wilson? What have you got?"

"I was looking into the car full of drugs that Urqhart had intercepted. I tracked it down to an arrest that was made six months ago. A stolen car was spotted in Leith, and when Urqhart and his partner went to investigate they found the car had nine kilograms of cocaine in it. Two men were arrested, and both are suspected to be employees of Tommy McNunn. Their trial is next month."

"McNunn?" McKenzie repeated his name aloud, glancing over at Wessex, before quickly gathering his thoughts and looking back towards DS Wilson.

"Yes. The men denied any connection with McNunn and swear they were working alone. They said they'd got the drugs off a boat in the harbour. A small private cruiser which had apparently docked in Leith that day. They wouldn't say anything more and enquiries didn't manage to find any boat that fitted the description."

"Did you get a copy of the file?"

"Yes. I'll drop it by your office later this morning."

"Do that, please. I'll look forward to seeing that one. Now, did anyone find out anything about the whereabouts of Petrovsky's car that evening? Can we figure out how he got Urqhart up to the top of the Crags without being spotted by anyone else?"

Unfortunately, the room collectively drew a blank.

Neither had anyone else managed to find any witnesses who could place Petrovsky anywhere near the Queen's Park that evening.

After that, there was nothing else of real significance. A few actions were handed out, and McKenzie wrapped up the meeting.

As they all filed out, McKenzie turned to Wessex.

"Coffee?"

Wessex nodded.

It didn't take much for Wessex to figure out what McKenzie wanted to talk to her about.

McNunn.

Tommy _'I told you he had something to do with this'_ McNunn.

\-------------------------

DCI McKenzie's Office

St Leonards Police Station

Edinburgh

Friday

9.45 a.m. G.M.T.

"So?" Wessex asked as she walked into Campbell's office.

McKenzie was standing by the window, looking out towards the Crags.

From where he was he could count at least five people standing near the rim of the cliff face, either peering over the edge or walking their dogs.

Campbell turned to face her, gesturing for her to sit down, although such little acts of authority between them had started to dry up months ago, just after their shared drunken kiss one night, and shortly before McKenzie had realised the drinking was getting a little out of hand.

"So 'what?'," McKenzie asked, innocently.

"So, you feel good because at last you're finding some way to pull Tommy McNunn back into the picture?"

"The drugs that Urqhart had came from McNunn. It was a large shipment. McNunn would've been really pissed off with Urqhart. It could be enough for a motive to kill him."

"What about the other police officer? He's still alive and kicking. Why not him too?"

"I don't know. What was his partner's name?"

"I don't know either. I haven't seen the file yet."

"It would be interesting to see how close they were..."

McKenzie was thinking of the photograph that he had of Urqhart with McNunn. Was the other officer involved too? And, if their intelligence was right, and if Urqhart was working with McNunn, why did he sell his drugs to Petrovsky? Why not give them back to McNunn? Or was he just hoping to make a fast buck and hope that McNunn never found out?

So far, he hadn't shown Wessex the photo of Urqhart and McNunn together. She didn't know that they were having McNunn followed at random intervals. McKenzie hadn't told her. There were lots of things Wessex didn't know, even though sometimes McKenzie was really tempted to tell her everything. It would actually be useful to get a second opinion or a sounding board off which to occasionally bounce some of his ideas about McNunn and his organisation, but it was probably in part because of their shared kiss that he refrained from doing so. He was scared to share too much with her, lest the act of sharing created a greater sense of attraction to her.

The kiss had been a mistake. A one-off. But since then, occasionally he had caught himself looking at her a little too often.

And he knew that it was a slow path that would only lead to ruin, especially if his wildest dreams were ever even partially fulfilled in any way.

"Are you okay?" Wessex asked, ripping him from his thoughts.

"Sorry, yes. I'm just tired. But on that point, can you please try to discover how close they were? Try to make a few enquiries about his partner at the time. Look for anything unusual. Any connections or dealings with McNunn? Anything. He swapped partners a few months ago. When you and I talked to his new partner, PC Middleton, just after Urqhart's death, there was no suspicion of anything funny going on, and Middleton wasn't aware of anything suspicious in Urqhart's behaviour. Perhaps you could try to find out why Urqhart got a new partner? Did he fall out with the old one? Who arranged the swap? Anything you find out would be good."

"Absolutely. No problem. But I think you can relax now Campbell. We've got our man. It's okay to get it wrong once in a while. I think deep down you know that McNunn has nothing to do with this. It's just the vendetta that you hold against him, which for some reason, keeps driving you to pin everything you can on him."

"I'm sorry? A vendetta? What on earth are you talking about? In case you've forgotten, Tommy McNunn is one of Scotland's biggest organised crime leaders. I don't have any vendetta against the man. But I do want to make sure that he goes down. He's a murderer just like Petrovsky, and just as dangerous. Maybe they weren't made from the same mould, but until we can get them both off the streets, Edinburgh will just continue to slide deeper and deeper into the depths of depravity and lawlessness."

"It's okay, Campbell, I get it. I do," Wessex interrupted him. "I understand. And we will get him. It's just that I don't think he's to blame for Urqhart's death."

"That's where you and I differ on this one. Deep down, I actually think that McNunn _IS_ involved in this somehow. And this can't be a coincidence. The fact that McNunn is linked to the drugs seizure means more than we're seeing just now."

Even as he said it, though, McKenzie wondered if he had already figured it out.

Sometimes the obvious was the most likely solution.

And if he was right, all McKenzie had to do now was find some way to prove it.

Just then, there was a knock on the door and DC Lynch hurried into the office.

"Yes?" McKenzie asked.

"We just got a report of a body being found in a shallow grave in East Lothian."

"And? Is there a connection to the Urqhart case?"

"Could be. Or it may just be coincidence. It seems that a pack of foxes was caught chewing on some cooked meat they'd dug up on the edge of a field near North Berwick. When the farmer chased them off and took a closer look, it turned out that the meat was actually part of a body they were ripping apart and devouring. It was really quite a deep grave, but the foxes were driven mad with the smell, and had dug the body up, regardless. Not far from the grave there was a pile of burnt and smouldering tyres. It looks like the poor bastard who was killed had been necklaced."

"Any idea who it was?"

"Yep, the man was still carrying his wallet. It was Alex Anderson. Petrovsky's third in command."

\-------------------------

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Friday

3.55 p.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand had been excited all day long. He had arrived at work full of nervous excitement and anticipation.

Jonathan's car would be delivered back to his house sometime during the morning, and definitely by lunch time in Scotland.

He had instructed the garage to park the car outside Jonathan's house, then put the keys in an envelope and mark it 'URGENT: FOR THE ATTENTION OF MR JONATHAN STUART OR HIS CLOSEST RELATIVE'. The garage was to ring Jonathan's doorbell several times and try to hand the key over to him personally. Failing that, if he was not reachable, they should post the envelope through his door.

Inside the envelope they were to put a copy of the email that Anand had sent to them, which read:-

"Dear Mr Stuart,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. Enclosed in this envelope you'll find the keys to your Ford Mondeo, which has now been fully repaired and valeted. You will find the car parked in the street outside your house.

Please can you call Swiss Insurance as soon as you receive this letter, and ask for Anand Mhasalkar, so that I can explain what has happened, and check that you're happy with the delivery and repairs to the car.

If I'm not there when you call, please try again later, and may I request that you do not speak to anyone else. I would like to explain this to you personally.

I trust you will find this a pleasant surprise!

Your sincerely,

Anand Mhasalkar

P.S. If you are a relative who opens this letter, please call me too, and let me know how Jonathan is. We at Swiss Insurance wish him a speedy recovery from his recent illness."

Anand had given his direct number, and he had not left his desk all day, save to go to the bathroom quickly, just in case Jonathan had called while he was away.

It was now coming to the end of Anand's Friday afternoon shift and still Jonathan had not called.

Anand had tried calling him every thirty minutes and had already left two long voice messages.

He had also called the garage just after lunch in the UK, who confirmed that the car had been delivered safe and sound. Unfortunately, the woman who delivered the car had not found anyone at home, and had, as instructed, posted the envelope containing the keys through the letterbox.

"Did you get the right address?"Anand had queried, upsetting the lady slightly. They had checked the address with each other, and no, there had not been any mistake.

Anand knew that he had now done everything he could. As soon as Jonathan walked through the door of his home, he would find the envelope, and even before that he would have seen his beloved Mondeo: the woman from the garage had apparently been able to park the car in a space directly outside his front door.

So, where was Jonathan?

It was five to six, an hour after Anand should have gone home. Anand had already closed down his station and was gathering his possessions to leave, when one of the agents a few desks away called to him: "Anand, hang on a second, ...are you expecting a call from Mr Jonathan Stuart?"

Anand turned to his colleague, his heart skipping a beat, and a smile bursting out all over his face.

"Yes! Yes! Please, put him through!"

Anand bent forward and picked up the phone...

\-------------------------

Radisson Blu Hotel

The Royal Mile,

Edinburgh

Friday 11 p.m.

Tommy McNunn had been sitting waiting on the bed in Room 456 for twenty minutes before Caroline knocked four times, paused, knocked again twice in quick succession, then three times more slowly.

He jumped up off the bed and rushed to open the door for her.

Grabbing her by the wrist, he pulled her into the room, closing the door quickly behind her.

"It's broad daylight. What are you playing at?" he demanded, walking back to the bed, pulling her behind him. "Anyone could see you."

Not waiting for a reply, he pushed her gently in front of him, and bent her over the bed, lifting her skirt from behind and reaching inside to pull down her knickers.

"No, not now," she protested, pushing backwards and spinning round in his grip to face him. "We have to chat."

"Afterwards. Just looking at you dressed like that turns me on."

"No. Afterwards. Maybe, but now we have to talk." She stepped away from him, creating some distance. Tommy gave up and sat down on the bed.

"This better be important. I was pretty busy. I've got a lot on this afternoon. So, what is so important that you have to suddenly demand to see me?"

"First, were you responsible for turning one of Petrovsky's men into toast?"

McNunn stared at her.

"How did you know?"

"Just answer the question. Yes or no. And if yes, why didn't you bloody tell me about it? Petrovsky's not even been sentenced yet, and you're creating a war?"

"Sometimes fortune favours the brave."

McNunn reached behind him and slipped his hand under the pillow, pulling out a little box which he offered to Caroline.

"For you. Consider it a little 'thank you' for suggesting that I get rid of Petrovsky the way you did. It was your idea, and a good one. Thanks to you, I'm going to be able to take over the whole of the east coast. It'll just be me and Billy Bob Patterson left. For now, he can keep Glasgow. Once I've sewn up Petrovsky's businesses, Billy and I can talk and come to some agreement about territories. Here, take it..." he said, pushing the box towards her again.

Caroline took it from him and opened the lid. It was a long, obviously very expensive string of pearls.

She smiled, and came towards him, wrapping her arms around him, while he remained sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Thank you. It's beautiful. I love it."

She kissed him, and McNunn immediately began to respond, one hand reaching for her breasts and the other cupping her bottom.

Caroline pushed him back again, although this time more gently.

"Why didn't you tell me? And what are you planning to do? Kill all Petrovsky's management team? Get rid of the leaders, so that you can just step into Petrovsky's shoes?"

"Yup. That's the plan. In fact, I'm going to take out another one this afternoon. Death by drowning, or strangulation. Whichever one he prefers. You know, I always like to ...."

"...give them a choice. I know." Caroline finished his sentence. "And who's doing it? Your usual two clowns?"

McNunn stood up.

"What's up? Why the sudden concern who's helping me?"

"I heard a rumour today, which is why I needed to see you straight away. Someone has been spreading rumours that it was you who pushed Urqhart over the edge of Salisbury Crags. And from what you told me before, the only two people who know you did it, were Bill and Ben, your two flower pot men."

McNunn's face began to change colour.

"When did you hear this? And from where?"

"That's not important just now, what's important is that you need to find out which one of them is talking, and silence him. As soon as possible. If the police pick him up and he talks to them, you're dead. And Petrovsky walks free. You can forget all our carefully laid plans of world domination. This time tomorrow you'll be in a cell in Shotts prison."

"Fuck."

"Have you any idea which one it was? I thought they were both completely loyal to you?"

"So did I. Shit!"

"Listen, I've got to go. But you've got to take care of this. And soon. Do you understand?"

For a moment, she stood looking at him. She could already see the cogs turning in his brain, thinking, planning.

Walking up to him, she kissed him gently on the cheek and whispered in his ear.

"Take care of your business first, and then tonight, I'll take care of you. Okay?"

McNunn looked her in the eyes, holding her gaze for a second, then nodded.

She turned and walked towards the door.

"Danielle?" he called after her, using her real name. "Thank you! And when I see you tonight, bring your old uniform with you again. It's a real turn on. The cops are always trying to fuck me. It's nice to be able to return the favour every now and again!"

Danielle, - 'Caroline' - , smiled and slowly opened the door, glancing out into the corridor and quickly checking that it was clear.

Outside she hurried towards the lift, but decided instead to take the stairs.

Leaving through the back of the hotel, she walked down a side street and turned into the Cowgate.

Opening the door to her police car which she had parked a few hundred metres along the street, DI Wessex climbed in, turned the key in the ignition, and drove off.

Chapter 22

Andheri

Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

India

Friday

9.55 p.m. India Standard Time (IST)

Anand lay on his bed, crying.

That morning he had felt on top of the world. Excited. Full of optimism for the day ahead. For the first time since he had started his job, he had looked forward to going to work. He had even turned up before his shift was due to start!

But now, his world was very, very grey. Dark foreboding thunderclouds filled his head, and sorrow filled his heart.

As he lay on his bed, curled upon in a ball, his knees pulled tightly into his chest, he ran the conversation from the telephone call over and over in his head.

"Hello, is this Anand Mhasalkar?"

"Yes, hello, Mr Stuart? Jonathan? Is that you?"

"Hello, no, I am sorry. This isn't Mr Stuart. My name is Donald Donaldson. I'm a solicitor from the firm of Donald Donaldson & Sons. I've just opened your letter and found the car keys for Mr Stuart. I'm calling you just now as requested."

Anand hesitated for a second before replying, "May I ask, how is Mr Stuart, how is Jonathan? I've been very worried about him. You see, I was the one who called the ambulance and had him taken to hospital. He collapsed while I was talking to him on the phone."

"Aha...yes," the man at the other end replied. "I'm aware that someone from the insurance company called the ambulance. Mr Mhasalkar, I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you..."

Anand swallowed hard, fearing what he was going to hear next.

"Unfortunately, Mr Stuart passed away on Tuesday."

"Passed away?"

"Yes, I'm sorry but Mr Stuart died. I'm his solicitor. I'm overseeing his estate now and I'm responsible for fulfilling his last wishes. I've just come around to the house to make sure everything is secure and to collect a few documents."

Anand had felt suddenly light headed, and pulled his chair towards him, sitting down with a hard thump.

"How? Why?... What did he die of?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know if..."

"Mr Donaldson... Jonathan and I got to know each other quite well over the past few weeks. I really like him. And if he didn't wake up after he collapsed, I may even be the last person he ever talked to." Anand paused, taking a deep breath. "I need to know why he died. Did he die of a heart attack caused by the stress of dealing with the insurance company, ... of dealing with me? I'm worried, really worried. I need to know if I killed him?"

Anand could hear the man at the other end of the phone take a deep breath.

"Mr Mhasalkar, please don't worry. I don't think his death was your fault. I believe he died of complications from advanced lung cancer. After he collapsed, he did recover consciousness in the hospital, although I was told by the nurses that he went downhill quite quickly after that. There was nothing anyone could do for him. If he hadn't had a heart attack, he would've died anyway. He was a very ill man."

Anand heard what the man was saying, but didn't immediately take it all in.

"He's dead?" he repeated aloud back to the solicitor in Edinburgh.

"Yes, Mr Mhasalkar, I'm afraid he is." The man confirmed, then said nothing for a moment. As a solicitor who often had to break the news of deaths to relatives or loved ones, he knew that sometimes saying nothing for a while was the best policy.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Mr Mhasalkar."

"It's okay. Thank you, Mr Donaldson. I appreciate you telling me."

"Mr Mhasalkar, may I ask, since I've got you on the phone, I was wondering, do you know anyone in your company called David?"

"Yes. Actually, that's me. It's the name that I give to customers in the UK so they think they're dealing with someone local. Someone not in a call centre in India..." Anand replied, a little surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"Because, when Mr Stuart was admitted to hospital he was clutching a piece of paper in his hand, which he was apparently very reluctant to let go of, and which he held on to very tightly until he died. He'd scribbled a few notes down on the paper, and your name was mentioned on it."

"What did it say about me?"

"I have it just here...Hang on a second please, while I get it out of my wallet."

There was the sound of rustling on the other end of the phone.

"Okay, got it. It's written in pencil. It says, 'Call David at Swiss Insurance and apologise for hanging up the other day.' Then on the line beneath it says, 'Stand up for myself. Make Sally proud of me. Even if it's the last thing I do, make the other driver say he was sorry. Make him **say he was sorry!** ' "

"Can you read that last line again?" Anand asked.

"The first part sounds really positive. It means he wanted to apologise to you. He doesn't sound at all angry with you. But to be quite honest, the second line is underlined several times and it's written quite heavily. It looks like there was some real emotion behind it. If I was a betting man, I'd say Mr Stuart was upset with the other man, not with yourself, so I wouldn't feel bad at all. It reads, ' _Even if it's the last thing I do, make the other driver say he was sorry. Make him say he was sorry!_ ' Does that make any sense to you?"

"Yes, actually it does. He's referring to the driver who drove into his car and wrote it off. It was his pride and joy." Anand swallowed hard, fighting back his emotion. "It was a shame he never got to see it all repaired and polished. It's sitting outside his front door now."

"Yes, I've seen it. The garage did a good job."

A few more words were said, niceties, but nothing of any significance. Then on behalf of Mr Stuart, the solicitor thanked Anand for his help, and hung up.

The journey home from work was just a blur. Anand couldn't really remember how he got home.

Despite Jonathan seemingly not being upset with him, Anand knew that the way Swiss Insurance had treated him was a major contributing factor to the heart attack. Hearing that Jonathan would have died anyway did help a little, but that then also meant that Swiss Insurance was partially to blame for ruining the precious few days that Jonathan had had left.

It was the second line of Jonathan's note that really made him feel sick though.

"Make him say he was sorry."

The words went around and around in his head.

"Make him say he was sorry. Make him say he was sorry. Make him say he was sorry ..."

As he lay on the floor of his apartment, the squalid little shit-hole in which he and his family were now forced to try to exist, the sorrow and anger and shame he felt for his part in Jonathan's demise and ultimate death twisted and turned within him, morphing and finally crystallising into a hatred of two things:

Firstly, Swiss Insurance, and secondly, the bastard who smashed up Jonathan's car and lied about it, blaming it all on that nice old man.

He, Anand Mhasalkar was not squeaky clean. He was also guilty. But the more he thought about it, - the more it all sickened him, and the more he got angry, the clearer it became to him that there was a way for him to find absolution. To earn the right to forgive himself for what he had done.

It was almost as if he could hear Jonathan telling him what he had to do; it was so clear. So very clear.

And so very simple.

Anand had to get the other driver, Mr Tommy McNunn, to see the error of his ways.

To force him to apologise for the accident and the lies he had told, and....

_"Make him_ _say he was sorry_ _!"_

END OF BOOK ONE

To continue reading 'Say You're Sorry: Book Two' and to discover the answers to the questions below and much more, please purchase Book Two.

In Book Two discover the answers to the following questions:

1: What will happen to Tommy McNunn? Will Anand Mhasalkar manage to exact the revenge he so desires? Will he destroy Tommy McNunn? Or will McNunn destroy Anand?

2: What will happen to DCI Campbell McKenzie?

3: What is the unexpected twist in the story that few people can predict?

Other Books by Ian C.P. Irvine

I Spy, I Saw Her Die

Haunted From Within

Haunted From Without

Time Ship

The Orlando File

The Messiah Conspiracy

London 2012: What If?

The Sleeping Truth

Alexis Meets Wiziwam the Wizard

If you have any comments, please contact the author at :- iancpirvine@hotmail.co.uk

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To connect with Ian C.P.Irvine on Twitter, connect with Ian at @IancpIrvine

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To keep up to date with other news, events and ebook releases, please visit the website at: www.iancpirvine.com or http://www.free-ebook.co.uk/

