him up and get the other car to follow that one.’
The young man in the bomber jacket, cheerful now, was not to eat breakfast that day, nor any other day.
Friday began, deceptively, like any other day. John Leith looked from the window of his flat at a grey sky, at litter being blown into shop doorways by a cold November wind, and almost decided not to bother going to work. However, there was young Tracy, already on her way in from Rose-burn, a five-minute bus ride away from his office, so he really had no choice.
He didn’t hurry over breakfast—being his own boss, he had no need to reach the office at a certain time. Young Tracy would arrive before him and open the mail, make fresh coffee, and they might discuss her latest boyfriend while she added more gel to support her new spiky hair-do. He’d keep her there for as long as he could, to put off the moment when he had his own day to face, before she collected up any typing he needed done.
Then she went on to her real job in Kramer Property, the office block in the High Street, owned by his uncle, Rees Kramer. It was a convenient arrangement—John didn’t have to employ an assistant and Tracy enjoyed her late start to her own day at Kramer’s.
She was sixteen, bright and talkative and totally unconcerned by the fact that he was her boss’s nephew. Sometimes she made him feel old as she told him about her latest romance while they had coffee. She perched on his desk, swinging her legs, and then with a final smoothing down of her mini-skirt, a manœuvre that gave the morning its sparkle, she would leave around ten—depending on when he got there in the first place.
It was a good way to start any day. It set the tone for the rest of the hours he felt obliged to put in and if he had no appointments he might even drive her to Kramer’s and loiter there for an hour or so. But today was to be slightly different because he was to spend the weekend with his sister who looked after his son David. He had a vague plan to leave around lunch-time, arriving at Gwen’s home in Biggar in time for afternoon tea.
He switched on the radio in the hope of catching the weather forecast while he gathered up the bits and pieces that he was taking with him, David’s birthday present, Gwen’s favourite chocolates, his briefcase and suitcase.
‘… central Scotland down to the Borders may have snow flurries. Drivers are warned to watch out for ice on the the roads …’ More or less what he’d expected.
Outside it was freezing and he slipped on the icy pavement, scattering his armload of smaller items. As usual, the gritters had not listened to the forecast and the pavements were treacherous.
Everything was slowed down that morning, mainly because he’d caught the worst of the traffic coming in from the Forth Bridge and as always, if the roads to the north were bad, the commuters would be crawling into town. The minutes ticked by as he got stuck in a jam on the steep cobbled street out of Stockbridge, but it didn’t bother him because he wasn’t on a strict timetable. The car was warming up and he was enjoying a Rush tape—one of Tracy’s—and he didn’t have a twinge of premonition that anything unusual was about to alter his plans for the day.
He parked in the private space reserved for permit holders outside the elegant Georgian terrace where most of the houses had been converted into offices, then said good morning to the elderly cleaning lady who was polishing the brass plate on the wall of the building. Minutes ticked by as Rachel discussed the weather.
‘Too cold for snow, do you think?’ she asked, straightening up with one hand supporting her back.
She was long past retiring age but said her little job was all that kept her from stagnating.
‘Is it this weekend you visit your boy?’
‘Mm. Leaving around lunch-time. It’s his birthday tomorrow.’
Rachel had been cleaning the offices for years and she knew the history and habits of every person who worked in the converted Georgian building.
‘I’ve bought him a camera.’
She nodded approvingly. ‘Well, you watch yourself, Mr Leith. It’s a nasty old road in bad weather.’
And she went back to giving the brass a further polish. There were several names on the plate, including his own which read ‘John Leith, accountant’, and beside it there was an entry-phone system. He went in through the open glass door, up one flight of carpeted stairs, past two other company offices where people were already at work, then reached his own half-glazed door. He could smell the coffee perking on the small stove in the back room but Tracy was playing one of her favourite heavy metal tapes loudly and she didn’t hear him come in, so he stood at his desk and looked through the morning’s mail which she had already opened.
He didn’t hear the glass door open behind him, nor did he see the intruder who held a short heavy wooden club.
The man didn’t hesitate: he brought the weapon down hard on the back of John’s head, but some instinct made John move just enough for the blow to be a glancing one. He was still conscious as he fell, long enough to see the frayed ends of jeans and a pair of dirty white trainers and then he sank into a dark painful pit.
His face was deep in carpet pile when he came round and he could smell the stale dustiness of it. There was fluff in his mouth and the taste of the blood that had trickled from the back of his head.
He couldn’t understand what had happened and he lay there for some time trying to work it out but in the end he was forced to move because of the acrid smell from the dried-out coffee pot. He lurched towards the small back room that was little more than a cloakroom and bumped against the door frame as his vision blurred. The handle of the pot was hot and he dropped it, but all the liquid had evaporated and the dregs had congealed into a foul mess. Where was Tracy? Close to passing out again, he staggered back into the other room and leaned against his desk, and that was when he saw her lying behind it, sprawled beside his one expensive item of furniture, a soft leather reclining chair.
She was on her back, one arm flung up beside her head, and she was deathly pale.
A red swelling over one eye was pulling her eyebrow upwards and a tiny line of blood had run into her eye socket to create a dark puddle. At first he thought the eye itself was gone and a wave of nausea brought bile into his mouth, but after he’d moved around the desk, leaning on it for support like a drunk, he saw it was not as bad as that. Bad enough, though.
Her mini-skirt had risen up to reveal brief panties under her patterned black tights. Illogically his first instinct was to bend to pull down the skirt, because although the young girl liked to give the impression of being trendy, he knew that she would have been embarrassed by the almost obscene position in which she was lying. But he knew he couldn’t possibly bend down without passing out again, so instead he reached for the phone.
The ambulance came almost at the same time as the police and he was again sitting on the floor with his back against the desk when the first uniformed man came through the door.
‘Please see to Tracy first. I’m all right,’ he said but the words were so carefully pronounced, with lips and tongue like rubber, that now he even sounded like an elegant drunk.
They were very good, both sets of uniforms, and in no time he had given a statement of sorts, had been examined, and was on his way to the Royal Infirmary.
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