A pretty teenage girl with blond hair and wide green eyes opened the door, her gaze darting warily from Quinn to Elizabeth. “What is it?”
Elizabeth gave the girl a warm, calming smile. “I’m Elizabeth, and this is Quinn. We’d like to speak with Clive if he’s at home.”
“You’re American.”
“Is it that obvious?” Even Elizabeth’s tone of voice was soothing.
“Aye. The accent.” The girl smiled.
“It’s my first time in Scotland. What’s your name?”
“Nicola.”
“May we come in, Nicola?”
“He’s been drinkin’,” Nicola said in a warning tone of voice. She opened the door to let them in. “Da, there’s some people to speak wi’ you.”
Quinn followed Elizabeth inside. The flat was small and cluttered but not filthy, its ceiling sagging in places and stained with mold, the cloying odor permeating everything. They found Clive MacDonald sitting in his underwear in a battered recliner, a bottle in his hand. Pale and balding, his belly bloated from a lifetime of drinking, he wasn’t the man who’d attacked Quinn at Jack and Ava’s house.
“I’ll no’ speak wi’ police. Get the fuck oot!”
The girl looked over at Elizabeth. “You’re no’ the police, are ya?”
“No, we’re not. We’re friends of Jack Murray.” Elizabeth’s gaze was on MacDonald when she spoke. “He’s the bodyguard who was found murdered a week ago in Glasgow.”
Quinn saw no sign of recognition on MacDonald’s face or his daughter’s, but then he wasn’t the expert. Elizabeth was.
“Jack Murray? I dinnae know the man,” MacDonald grumbled.
Quinn fought to keep his gob shut.
“That’s strange.” Elizabeth held out her phone. “Here’s a photo of you with Jack. He stopped you when you ran at Alastair Whitehall. He held you down. He said you were shouting about abortion and that you threatened to kill him and Alastair.”
MacDonald’s expression turned to rage. “I told you they were police. Lyin’ bastards. Get the fuck oot!”
“We’re no’ police, man.” Quinn knew he’d agreed to let Elizabeth ask the questions, but he wanted answers. “Jack Murray was my best friend, and now he’s dead and gone, and I’m tryin’ to understand.”
MacDonald looked straight into Quinn’s eyes. “It wisnae me who killed him. I didnae know that bastard’s name till the police came and asked me aboot him.”
So, MacDonald had just lied. Hedidknow who Jack was.
Elizabeth pressed him. “Why did you threaten to kill him and Mr. Whitehall?”
“If I threatened yer friend it was only because he had me pinned to the bloody ground, aye?”
“What about MSP Whitehall?”
MacDonald’s gaze shifted to the TV. “I cannae recall.”
“He was drunk.” Nicola spoke in a rush, fear on her face. “You were oot of your hied, aye, Da? Ravin’ drunk and angry about the babies. Da disnae think we should have abortion in Scotland.”
MacDonald nodded, met Elizabeth’s gaze. “Aye, I was mad wi’ it. Have you never been so drunk that you couldnae remember a thing after?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I haven’t.”
MacDonald grinned. “You’re a right prim little cunt, you are.”
Quinn’s fists clenched, but he stayed where he was. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your heid, or I’ll rip it out.”