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

appeared to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties, although it was difficult to tell given her long raincoat and wide-brimmed hat. She didn’t look back as she set off up the street towards Colinton Village, and neither did she notice the two detectives sitting in their unmarked car as she walked past. Janie watched her in the mirror until she reached the end of the road and disappeared around the corner.

‘Come on, then.’

She climbed out of the car, waited for Stringer to do the same, then locked it. Together they approached the house, Stringer stepping to one side of the door as Janie reached out and rang the doorbell. Inside the house it chimed a cheery ding-dong that echoed away to silence.

‘You want me to go round the back?’ Stringer asked.

‘He’s got a blown knee and a ruptured testicle, Jay. He’s not going to leg it anywhere.’ Janie rang the doorbell again, and this time as the ding-dong faded away she saw movement in the textured glass sidelight. She waited patiently as a person moved very slowly across the hall and unlocked the door.

‘If you’re trying to bring me good news from the Lord, forget it.’

‘We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses, don’t worry,’ Janie said in her friendliest voice. ‘Would you be Christopher Allan, by any chance?’

Leaning on the door frame for support, the man glowered at her. Like the woman who had recently left, he was perhaps pushing forty. He was dressed in baggy jogging pants and a hoodie, face sporting a day’s worth of stubble, hair tousled as if he’d not showered recently. Bloodshot eyes suggested he’d not slept much recently either.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Detective Sergeant Harrison.’ Janie held up her warrant card just long enough for him not to be able to focus on it properly. ‘And this is my colleague Detective Constable Stringer. Might we have a word, Mr Allan? It’s about the accident you had last night.’

She could see the thoughts play themselves across his face as plainly as if they’d been written in a little bubble above his head. Fear widened his eyes and the colour drained from his cheeks. Unable to run, and certainly in no position to put up any kind of fight, he was trapped and he knew it. His gaze slipped briefly past Janie towards the street beyond, but the woman wasn’t coming back any time soon. When he finally resigned himself to the situation, it was almost as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

‘Aye, you’d best come in then.’

The inside of Christopher Allan’s house wasn’t much more inspiring than the outside. It didn’t appear to have been redecorated since it had been built, sometime in the fifties if Janie was any judge. When he opened the door fully to let them in, she saw that Allan was walking with the aid of a single crutch, and the leg of his jogging bottoms on that side had been neatly cut open so that the brace on his knee could fit. He led them at a snail’s pace to a pleasant living room at the back of the house, French windows opening up on to a long, thin garden with a half-decent view of the Pentland Hills.

‘My sister was just here.’ He lowered himself into an armchair with much effort and a great deal of grimacing. Even once he had settled he didn’t look particularly comfortable.

‘That’s OK. It’s you I wanted to talk to. About the accident.’

‘It’s just that I’d offer tea or coffee, but it takes me a while to move.’

‘We’re fine, thanks.’ Janie perched herself on the edge of the sofa and took out her notebook. ‘Unless you’re wanting one yourself? I’m sure Constable Stringer can find the kitchen.’

That seemed to cheer Allan up no end. ‘You sure? I’d love a coffee then. Milk, no sugar. Kitchen’s that way.’ He twisted as he pointed towards the front of the house, then winced as the motion sent a spasm of pain through his groin.

‘I’ll no’ be long,’ Stringer said. ‘You wanting one, ma’am?’

Janie suppressed the laugh that would have spoiled the mood. ‘Aye, go on, Constable. Same for me.’

She watched him go, then turned her attention back to the injured man. ‘We’ll not keep you long, Mr Allan. I can see you’re in quite some discomfort there.’

Allan squirmed like a little boy who’s wet himself. ‘Aye. They’ve given me some painkillers right enough. But they don’t seem to do anything.’

‘As I understand it you fell down the steps at Fleshmarket Close. Got a bit tangled up with your mate . . .’ Janie left the sentence unfinished, hoping Allan would fill the gap and not being disappointed.

‘Brian, aye. Brian Galloway. We’d been having a few drinks in the Malt Shovel, see? Maybe one too many. Cannae remember if I tripped an’ grabbed him or he tripped an’ grabbed me. All I know is one moment we was at the top of the steps moaning about life, an’ the next we were at the bottom covered in blood.’

‘It’s been wet lately, so I guess the steps were slippy, right enough.’ Janie flipped a page in her notebook, even though so far she’d not written anything down. ‘So, you and Brian. You go drinking together often?’

A ghost of alarm flickered across Allan’s face at the question, as if he wasn’t sure how relevant it might be. ‘Aye, mebbe once every week or two. Have a blether about the old days. We’ve known each other since we were bairns. You know how it is.’

Janie didn’t, but then she was considerably younger than Allan. She glanced around the room as he spoke, taking in the details that showed what kind of life he lived. It was tidy, but perhaps not clean, and there weren’t many personal touches. One corner of the room was dedicated to the god of big screen telly, complete with Blu-ray player, Xbox and a jumble of cables. The shelves behind it were full of games and discs, no books