“Jack Murray was an honorable man, so he was. If you’re tryin’ to prove otherwise, you’re off your heid.”
You bastard.
The detective had asked for Quinn’s address and phone number and then left, his visit leaving Ava done in. Quinn had tried to comfort her, making another pot of tea, listening to her rage. Then he’d helped her pack for her stay in Paisley, waiting with her until Hannah, Jack’s sister, had arrived.
Hannah hadn’t forgotten him. “Jack would be glad to know you’re here.”
“I wouldnae be anywhere else.”
Quinn had carried Ava’s bags to Hannah’s car. “If you need me, you just call. I’ll stay in Scotland as long as I can and come back for the service if I must.”
Ava had taken his hand. “Thank you, Quinn. I don’t know what I would have done this morning without you.”
Quinn had watched them drive away before climbing into the Crossland and heading off to meet Lewis for a late lunch. He and Andrew had stopped for a drink and a bite, the two of them talking about arranging military honors for the funeral and sharing memories of Jack. The way Jack’s hand had always shot up when Lewis asked for volunteers. The time they’d come under fire in the middle of Jack’s shower and he’d run outside naked with his rifle. The way he’d removed a tick from Couper’s anus when they’d been on a ten-day reconnoiter together.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” Lewis had raised his beer. “He was the best of us.”
“Aye, that he was. Cheers.”
Quinn had stopped at a whisky shop and then booked a room at a hotel—the Dakota, one of the poshest hotels in the city. He didn’t care about luxury, but he’d wanted to show the town that had almost broken him that he was no longer the poor boy who’d joined the army just to have a bite to eat and a roof over his head.
Beyond the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky was beginning to darken. He’d forgotten how short the days were here. In Colorado, the sun wouldn’t set until around eighteen-hundred hours. Then again, he was still jet-lagged from all the bloody flying he’d done—Kabul to Denver, Denver to D.C., D.C. to London, London to Glasgow. He didn’t know what time it was anyway.
He set the bottle on the end table and, before he knew it, fell asleep.
When he woke, it was dark—and he was famished.
He ordered a steak and chips from room service and ate while watching the news. Another Brexit extension. A cyclist injured in a hit-and-run in Aberdeen. The body of a missing teenage girl found in a ditch at a construction site outside Edinburgh. Then an image of Jack filled the screen.
“Investigators are no closer to an arrest tonight in the homicide of Jack Murray, a decorated veteran of the SAS who worked as a private security guard for Scottish Conservatives MSP Alastair Whitehall. Murray’s body was found in a Glasgow alley near his car. Police refused to comment, citing the ongoing investigation, but a source close to Police Scotland said drugs might have been involved.”
Quinn was on his feet, rage pounding in his chest. “Jesus sufferin’ fuck!”
How could they do that? How could they say that on the television without proof? They were dragging Jack’s name through the mire—and he wasn’t yet in his grave.
Had Ava seen this?
Christ, Quinn hoped not.
Och, Jack, what the bloody hell happened that night?
Quinn reached for the remote, turned off the telly. He had half a mind to ring up DS Wilson and ask him which bastard at Police Scotland had leaked those details.
He must have evidence that points to drugs or he wouldnae keep pursuin’ this.
The first inkling of doubt washed through Quinn, leaving guilt in its wake.
No. Never. Not a chance.
Jack Murray could drink until he was steamin’, aye, but never in all the years Quinn had known him had he touched drugs. It was a load of shite—all of it.
Quinn reached for his mobile phone, navigated to his voicemail, and listened to Jack’s message again, as if listening would help him understand.
Hey, McManus, it’s Jack. Ring me when you get this, aye?
After almost two decades of friendship, those were the last words Jack had spoken to him. How could that be? How could those dozen ordinary, everyday words be the last?
Quinn had lost friends in combat, but this was different. Grief cut him off at the knees, left an ache in his chest. Sweet Jesus, he would give anything to have gotten that call, to have had a chance for a right good blether—and a proper goodbye.