What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

wasn’t as if there was anything she could do right now, and by the morning they’d have more information to go on.

She switched the phone off, slipped it into her pocket, then logged out of the computer and grabbed her coat from the back of her chair. Some of the night shift were beginning to filter into the room now, Sandy Gregg bringing everyone up to speed. Not that there was a lot for them to do. Most of the chatter seemed to be about the DI’s car anyway.

Janie slipped away unnoticed, let herself out the back door and walked through the car park to the road. Glancing up, she saw the CCTV cameras covering every inch of parking space and marvelled at the balls of a thief who could stride in as bold as brass and steal the nicest car in the place. Cheeky sod. Not that it had done him much good.

A light squall of rain kicked up out of nowhere as she made the walk to Nicolson Street for a bus. Janie pulled her collar up, wishing she’d brought a hat. Winter was coming, as that mad telly series Manda went on about kept saying. Still, it would be nice to get home to the flat, have a bite to eat and curl up on the sofa for some mindless viewing. If she could get her mind to switch off for a moment, that was.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, Janie almost didn’t notice the footsteps behind her. They weren’t heavy or threatening, but they were coming closer. Not quite a run. She shoved her hand deep into her pocket, made a fist around her bunch of keys. Not tonight. Not any night. She didn’t need this shit.

Whirling around at the last moment, she pulled her hand out of her pocket, swinging down and back in readiness to land a punch. The figure hurrying towards her wasn’t a mugger though. Quite the opposite. She looked like someone had attacked her already. And she was familiar.

‘Janie? Janie Harrison? Thank fuck for that.’ The young woman’s English accent was the final clue.

‘Izzy?’ Janie shoved her keys back in her pocket and went to grab the young woman before she fell down. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

The Southsider wasn’t Janie’s favourite pub, but it had the benefit of being close. She led Izzy inside, a wave of warm air washing over them and bringing with it the familiar pub smell of stale beer and body odour.

‘You look like you need a stiff drink,’ she said, as she guided the young woman to a seat in the corner, miraculously free of punters at this early stage of the night’s drinking. ‘Sit there and I’ll get you something, aye?’

Izzy did as she was told, but didn’t say what she wanted. Janie went to the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. Whisky might have been better, but it was still a bit early for that, and the pay rise that came with her promotion wouldn’t hit her bank until the end of the month. It occurred to her as she carried the glasses back to the table that Izzy – Isobel DeVilliers – was probably one of the richest people in the country. Hadn’t she inherited a share of her dad’s billions?

‘There you go. Get that down you. Should settle your nerves.’

Izzy seemed to be coming back to her senses now, the shock of whatever had happened beginning to wear off. In the poor light of the pub, she looked a mess. Of course, she’d looked a mess the first time Janie had seen her – wasn’t that part of the whole hippy chick grunge look? – but Janie was fairly sure that didn’t include scrapes and bruises on the face and hands, and certainly not a cracked and swollen lip.

‘Thanks,’ she said, then winced as she tried to take a sip of her wine. She paused for a moment before going for it again, taking a decent gulp this time and grimacing as she swallowed. ‘Ugh, maybe not. What is that?’

‘You’re welcome.’ Janie ignored the comment and took a sip from her own glass. It was horribly sour, but the alcohol would numb her tastebuds soon enough. ‘So tell me. What happened to you?’

Izzy shuddered slightly, then pulled herself together. ‘There were two of them,’ she said, after another gulp of the foul wine had disappeared down her throat. ‘Jumped me as I was walking up the Royal Mile. I’d been down at Holyrood trying to get a chance to speak with someone about that bloody man, Fielding.’

As she spoke, Janie studied the young woman’s face, trying to get an idea of her injuries. She was bruised, shaken, but also angry, which suggested any physical harm was superficial.

‘Did you get a look at them?’ she asked.

‘They had their faces covered with those stupid bandana things.’ Izzy shook her head. ‘One of them’s got at least three broken fingers and I’m pretty sure I broke his nose. The other’s going to need surgery on his right knee. Oh, and he’s probably got a ruptured testicle too.’

Something about the way she said it, her delivery perfectly deadpan, utterly serious, made Janie burst out laughing.

‘I meant it,’ Izzy said, a faint hint of annoyance in her voice.

‘Sorry.’ Janie pulled herself together, chugged back too much of the wine to help give her a little time. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t know. Maybe because that’s what I’ve wanted to do to Fielding every time I’ve been in the same room as the wee scrote.’

‘Scrote?’ Izzy’s puzzled frown lasted for a few seconds, then realisation dawned. ‘Ah. Apt.’

‘Seriously though, Izzy. You really inflicted serious injury on them? Your attackers? You fought back?’

‘Of course I did. I’m not going to let any man push me around like that. They had it coming.’

Janie heard the defensiveness in the young woman’s voice, back-pedalled as quickly as she could. ‘Not trying to suggest you should have done anything