Doug Johnstone - Hit and run

He examined it. Ran a finger along the side panel, then the bumper and the bonnet. It was filthy, his finger came away grey and gritty. There didn’t appear to be any damage, how could that be? Now that he looked closely, he could see a slight bevel in the bonnet, a little to the left of centre, and a corresponding dent in the bumper. Hardly even noticeable. In the reflecting sunshine he spotted a few indentations in the roof, small dimples in the curve of the metal. Jesus, was that it?

He looked at their heavy front door, the flat that Zoe’s dad had bought for her when she started Uni, Billy and Charlie freeloading as usual. Further along the road at the end of Rankeillor Street was St Leonard’s police station, an anonymous modern brick block. Beyond that loomed the ragged brown cliff of Salisbury Crags, buttressed by the near-vertical slope beneath, spreads of rough yellow gorse clinging on for dear life.

He turned the corner at the top of Queen’s Drive. It all looked so different in the thick, shimmering sunlight. The expanse of gorse on the Crags seemed to glow. His head throbbed. The cliffs above looked less ominous than last night, just a mottled strip of rock against pale sky.

Cars zipped up and down Queen’s Drive as normal. Two police cars and a van were parked on the large spread of grass to the right of the road, where the slope of Salisbury Crags levelled off and the gorse petered out. A rough square of police tape cordoned off an area of grass and gorse, half a dozen men in uniform or white overalls milling about.

It wasn’t the scene of Billy’s accident. That was at least two hundred yards away.

He looked from the crime scene back to the small clump of trees that lined the road. Where they’d left the body. What the fuck was going on? Was the body still in there?

He saw Rose puffing up the hill towards the crime scene. He dry-swallowed two of Charlie’s capsules and went to meet her, the pills haunting his throat. She waved when she spotted him. She had a fag in her mouth and a huge suede shoulder bag. She was fifty, busty, divorced and coughing her lungs up when he met her a few yards from the police tape.

‘Hey, Kiddo.’ She was gasping, getting her breath back. ‘You look as bad as I feel.’

Billy stroked the bump on his head then stole a glimpse at the copse of trees from this angle. Just a tight cluster of beech, cars swishing past alongside, nothing to see.

Rose began walking in the opposite direction towards the cordoned-off area. ‘Come on, let’s find a story.’

Billy traipsed after her. She was surprisingly fast. By the time he reached the crime scene, she was already talking to a middle-aged police officer with a neat grey beard and a smart suit. She had her notebook out and was making shorthand scribbles.

‘Stuart, this is Billy, my toyboy,’ she said. ‘Billy, this is Detective Inspector Price. Or Stuart, if you know him like I do.’

DI Price put on a smile but didn’t offer a hand. He turned back to Rose.

‘As I was saying, the body was found at 9.15 this morning by a local woman walking her dog.’

‘Name and address?’ Rose raised her eyebrows.

Price smiled. ‘I’ll get it from one of the grunts in a minute. Anyway, the body was found in amongst the gorse bushes here, which would seem to indicate a suicide or a tragic accident up on the Radical Road.’

‘Where?’ Billy said.

Price pointed upwards. ‘It’s the name of the path that runs along the base of the cliffs, at the top of this slope.’

Billy shielded his eyes as he looked up. He’d lived in Edinburgh his whole life and never heard the name before.

‘Got an ID on the deceased yet?’ Rose said.

Price smiled and looked at her notebook. ‘Not officially.’

She stopped writing and lowered the pad. It was like they were flirting.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Officially he’s a white male in his forties, average height and solid build, well dressed.’

Billy thought about last night.

‘And unofficially?’ Rose was giving him big eyes.

‘It’s Frank Whitehouse.’ Price had a note of triumph in his voice.

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Holy crap, Frank Whitehouse.’

‘Who?’ Billy said.

Price turned to him. ‘You’re a crime reporter and you don’t know who Frank Whitehouse is?’

‘He’s new,’ Rose said. ‘Learning the ropes.’

She turned to Billy. ‘Frank Whitehouse is, or was, probably the biggest criminal in Edinburgh. First made his mark in the nineties, started in drugs, moved into prostitution, identity fraud, money-laundering, you name it. These days he’s semi-legit, in property and development, with half the council in his pocket, but he’s still a thug at heart. Smart, though, never got caught himself, always got someone else to take the bullet.’

‘Until now, it would seem,’ Price said.

‘I can’t believe it, Frank Whitehouse is dead.’ Rose shook her head.

‘We haven’t had a formal identification yet,’ Price said. ‘A couple of officers are away to collect Mrs Whitehouse, escort her to the morgue.’ He nodded at two men in overalls. ‘We’re just about ready to remove the body.’

‘Can we see?’ Rose said.

Price raised his eyebrows and thought a moment, looking around.

‘Follow me.’

He lifted the flimsy tape and guided them under. He strode up to where the two overall guys were kneeling. Billy hung back, cricking his neck, rubbing his aching shoulders, feeling damp under his armpits. They were amongst gorse bushes now, mustardy flowers and thorns everywhere. Horseflies and midges skittered around them. A bee zigzagged between blossoms. DI Price and Rose were in front of him, looking at the body. He crept forward until he was almost between them.

He recognised the shoes. Expensive brown leather. Scuffed. He could see now that the socks on the ankles he held last night were burgundy. He raised his eyes. Fitted grey suit, cornflower-blue tie. Sturdy chest underneath, thick neck. The face was the same scraped and bloody mess Billy remembered.

He turned and staggered out the bushes, swiping at midges, his forehead wet with sweat. He made it ten yards then fell to his knees and threw up, his vomit blood-red from the beetroot schnapps, tearing at the lining of his throat as he retched and coughed.

He ran his tongue around his mouth and spat. He spotted two orange capsules among the mess. He carefully picked them out of the red swill and put them on his tongue, tried to swallow. He worked up some saliva and threw his head back.

He heard footsteps. Rose and DI Price were standing over him.

‘It’s his first dead body,’ Rose said. ‘He’ll be fine in a minute.’

They spoke to the woman who found the body. Five minutes on a doorstep in West Richmond Street jotting down her middle-class shock and trauma in quotable chunks. Rose did all the asking, Billy in a daze, his mind and stomach churning.

‘Nice bit of colour for the piece,’ Rose said as they came away. ‘We need to get something more meaty, though.’

She turned to him. ‘You’ve got a car, right?’

Billy nodded.

‘Rankeillor Street?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK, let’s drive to the Whitehouse place, wait for the merry widow to get back from the morgue. Catch her with her guard down.’

They headed up St Leonard’s Street, Billy a step behind.

‘There’s no way Frank Whitehouse topped himself,’ Rose said. ‘And there are plenty of rivals who wanted him dead. Oh boy, we are so ahead of the curve on this story, thanks to the lovely detective inspector.’

She gave Billy a cheeky smile. He could see how she would’ve been a real beauty in her day. Hell, she still had it, despite the crow’s feet and smoker’s cough.