“Friendly?”
“Yes, friendly. That means no punching.”
Quinn scowled. “I bloody well know what it means.”
* * *
It wasdark by the time they reached Edinburgh. Quinn parked on the street, getting as close as he could to the high-rise known as Thurston Tower. He’d never been here, but the neighborhood was one of the poorest in the UK and had a reputation for shabbiness and violence.
“This isnae the safest part of town. Stay close by me, aye?”
“I understand.”
They walked the short distance to Thurston Tower, coming to a big grassy area with paths and a playground—not the sort of place he would have brought Elizabeth at night if he’d had any choice. But the weather was chilly, and few people were about. A drunk in a thick woolen hat. A group of teenage boys huddled together near the swings. An old man walking a wee dog.
“It seems nice enough to me.”
“Does it now? When I was a boy, people called it Terror Tower. I hear it’s scheduled to be demolished.”
They reached the entrance to the high-rise, the lock on its security door broken, enabling anyone to walk in off the streets. They stepped into the lobby, memories rushing back at him. He hadn’t set foot in social housing since the night his father had thrown him out on the streets.
Elizabeth glanced at her cell phone. “He should be on the sixth floor.”
Quinn pushed the button for the lift. “What if this bastard willnae talk wi’ us?”
“Then we leave. We don’t have police authority or any official status here.”
Quinn was used to arriving with overwhelming force—armed to the teeth and authorized to kill. He felt naked showing up with nothing but a wee Glock 42.
The lift arrived, its doors gliding open to reveal a filthy, dingy interior, the fluorescent light fixture hanging down on one side by its wires, the reek of piss strong.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose as they entered, but she said nothing.
The four walls pressed in on Quinn.
Get oot ma hoose, ya fuckin’ bastard! Yer nae son o’ mine. Dinnae be comin’ back or I’ll beat the life oot o’ ye, so I will. This is yer hame nae mair, ya worthless fuck!
The lift stopped, bringing him back to the present, the doors opening on a filthy hallway—dirty vinyl dotted with rat droppings, the walls and ceiling stained black with mold, used syringes mere feet from a child’s pram. The thrum of hip hop. A baby’s cry. A man and woman arguing.
Quinn willed himself to breathe, the familiar stench of mold overwhelming.
Elizabeth took it all in, seemed to hesitate. “Number Six-Ten.”
“This way.” Quinn pointed.
A rat scurried past their feet, making Elizabeth jump.
“Sorry.” She looked up at Quinn, clearly embarrassed. “It just surprised me. That’s all.”
“You’ve no need to apologize.” He didn’t like her seeing this.
What would she think if she knew he’d grown up in such squalor?
Clive MacDonald’s flat was at the end of the hallway, a shabby gray door that didn’t stop the sound of the telly from coming through.
Elizabeth knocked. “I’ll ask the questions, okay?”
Quinn nodded. “You’re the intel expert.”