Doug Johnstone - Hit and run

‘We are therefore now confirming that the case of Mr Whitehouse’s death is a murder investigation. Since Mr Whitehouse was not found on or next to a road, it is so far unclear as to whether he was involved in an incident some distance away and his body transported to the scene of his discovery, or whether indeed he was not killed outright by an accident and somehow walked away from it, only to collapse at the bottom of the Crags. We are therefore returning to the area around the foot of the Radical Road for further forensic examination of an extended crime scene, and you will be informed of the results of that process when we have them.’

Price paused for breath. Adele lifted a hand to touch her glasses and a dozen camera flashes blitzed the room. Billy’s head and neck pounded, the pain in sharp jabs coursing down his back. He shifted in his seat and tried to swallow.

‘I’m sure there will be no shortage of speculation from you ladies and gentlemen of the press about the nature of Mr Whitehouse’s death, given his high profile and reputation. But let me remind you most strongly that this is now an active murder investigation, and excessive speculation in the press at this time may in fact prohibit a fair trial, if and when we reach that stage. Given Mr Whitehouse’s position in this city, we will be pursuing a number of lines of enquiry. Let me just now put out an appeal to the general public, though. We are keen to hear from anyone who might have seen Mr Whitehouse between the times of 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. on Monday morning, whether it be in the vicinity of Salisbury Crags or elsewhere. The last confirmed positive sighting of the deceased was at Fingertips massage parlour in Jock’s Lodge, an establishment that was one of several Mr Whitehouse owned. That was at approximately 1.50 a.m. Fingertips is some twenty or thirty minutes’ walk from where Mr Whitehouse was found, the direct route between the two places passing through Holyrood Park, and we would ask if any revellers or late-night drivers saw the deceased or anything at all suspicious anywhere along that route, that they contact the police immediately.’

Billy pictured the headlights of the taxi, fingers of light stretching towards them as they struggled with Frank’s body. He could hear the chug of its engine as it slowed to pass their parked Micra. He felt his palms and cheeks tingle, unearthly feelings like itchy pains, signals from his mind that his body couldn’t decode. His left leg was jittering. A muscle under his eye twitched. He closed his eyes, felt the heat of the room smother him. Eventually he opened his eyes. Price cleared his throat and looked a little uncomfortable.

‘One other important point to mention, which could be pertinent in our investigation, is that on the occasion of the last sighting of Mr Whitehouse, he was accompanied by his family dog, a distinctive border collie with a white patch over its right eye. The dog was wearing a plain leather collar but unfortunately nothing to identify it or its owners.’ Price paused, looked down at the desk. ‘The dog answers to the name of Rebus.’ There was a smattering of nervous laughter in the room, quickly snuffed out as Price looked up. ‘Apparently Mr Whitehouse was a fan of the fictional detective. The deceased was found with a dog lead in his pocket, but so far the dog has yet to be located.’

A dog. Rebus the fucking dog. Where was he? Billy pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and tried to breathe. He never saw a dog. Adele never mentioned a dog. Adele. He raised his head to look at her. He pictured her without the glasses, the look on her face, the damaged skin around the eye.

‘Mrs Whitehouse will now say a few words,’ Price said, causing a maelstrom of flashes.

Billy felt dizzy at the rushing sound of shutters clicking, the stifling room suddenly bathed in unnatural light, Adele lit up as if on a red carpet. She cleared her throat and spoke quietly but firmly, reading from a piece of paper.

‘First I want to say that Frank was a loving father and husband, and both Ryan and I will miss him more than words can express. He was a decent man, despite what some people, including members of the press, have said about him. He worked hard to provide for his family, and we are all devastated by his death.’

She raised a hand and touched the arm of her glasses. Cue flashes. Billy felt disoriented and turned away. He spotted a familiar figure standing in the doorway to the right of the desk. Dean Whitehouse. Black suit, black tie, face like stone. He was staring hard at Billy.

‘I always knew Frank couldn’t have committed suicide,’ Adele said. ‘And now we know that his death wasn’t an accident either. I can’t begin to express my anger and outrage over this, and I implore anyone with information about my husband’s murder to come forward to the police as soon as possible.’

Her head came up, triggering a mass of camera flashes. Billy had to close his eyes for a moment, then reopen them. With her shades on, Adele could’ve been looking at any of them, but Billy felt as if she was staring right into him.

‘Please.’ There was a tiny crack in her voice. ‘Please help us find who did this to Frank. If not for me, then for the sake of our son, who’s lost his father.’

Billy wanted to console her, take her in his arms and squeeze until everything was all right.

‘Thank you.’ Adele got up. There was a crescendo of noise, camera flashes going off, reporters shouting her name, DI Price trying to calm things down.

A burst of energy swept through Billy and he jumped from his seat. He propelled himself towards the door Adele was heading to, where Dean was waiting with an arm outstretched for her.

‘Adele,’ he shouted, his voice lost in the chaos.

She glanced round then turned away through the door.

Dean glared at him then followed her.

The skin bristled all over Billy’s face and neck, like an electric shock. Small bursts of light exploded in the corner of his vision like mini fireworks. He caught a smell of something, burnt coffee or a whiff of the skunk he’d shared with Adele. A pain leapt across his left shoulder and surged into the back of his neck. He felt his legs go from under him. He knocked a chair over on the way down, heard Rose shout his name, then his vision blurred and his mind emptied as he collapsed on the floor.

The whole length of Queen’s Drive was closed off. Billy stood at the top staring at the curve of road stretching down and round past the Standard offices, Dynamic Earth and the parliament. Police officers were congregating at various stages on the slope, milling about, swapping jokes and banter.

Billy stared at the police ROAD CLOSED sign. Cars approached the roundabout next to him, slowed as they took in the sign, then circled and headed back the way they had come.

He’d only passed out for a few seconds. Same as in the toilets. What was happening to him? He came round on the floor with Rose over him, her hefty cleavage in his line of sight, thick perfume filling his nose.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, before she’d had a chance to speak.

He tried to pick himself up as calmly as possible, managed to get to a chair, fingers tight on the blue plastic.

‘Must’ve had a dodgy pint last night,’ he said.

Rose stared at him, compassion in her eyes. ‘Go home and get some rest. Call me when you feel better.’

He hadn’t gone home. He needed fresh air, time and space to think.

He turned now and walked across the grass, away from the road, uphill then left to the bottom of a path. The start of the Radical Road. No name anywhere, just a red and white triangular sign warning of falling rocks. No tarmac, just gravel. Not a road at all. How had it got its name?