Loss

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Calls in the middle of the night rarely bring good news. There’s a drill folk go through before dialling a number at 1 a.m. — usually, if it can be avoided it will be. If it can’t, expect a jolt.

The first ring woke me but I let it get to double figures before I shifted arse, reached for the receiver. The glare of the digital clock stung, nearly burned the retinas out me.

‘Yeah, what?’ I blurted, my voice rougher than ever on the red Marlboros, poked me into manners, ‘I mean, hello.’

Formal tones. A youngish woman, but serious as the clap: ‘Is that Mr Dury?’

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘I’m calling from Lothian and Borders Police… Sorry to wake you so late, but I’m afraid it’s an important matter.’

The pay-off. Christ, I thought, here it comes; went with: ‘It is?’

A pause. Lip-biting perhaps. ‘Would you be able to come down to the station, Mr Dury?’

I sat up. A shiver passed through me as the duvet slipped — it was another cold night. I rubbed my eyes, lifted the alarm clock. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

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