John heard her before he saw her, and reached for his warrant card without thinking.

Hysterical sobbing. Anguished.

She sat on the other side of a lawn the size of a tennis court. Everyone knew the man who owned this place and his reputation, which is why they’d dumped it on John. Brydon the Bastard.

A movement caught his eye, and he spotted a woman peer out from behind a curtain.

That’ll be the Trophy Wife. A model or something, wasn’t she?

He’d heard about these people. Who hadn’t? He’d need to watch his mouth here.

The girl looked like a student, all torn stockings and black eye-liner. She sat at the foot of a sweeping stone staircase that climbed to massive polished oak wooden doors. None of your white plastic rubbish here. From the size of the property, and the tasteful marble lions either side of the front door, he doubted this would end well for a crumpled and sorry wee soul like her. A trip to the station and a caution if she was lucky.

The girl jumped when John cleared his throat. “Are you all right, Miss? Can we help you?”

She leapt to her feet. “My boyfriend. He’s in there and they won’t let me see him. Bastards.” This last word screamed back towards the house.

“OK, miss. Let’s moderate the Munrouage, shall we?” Don’t give the fucker an excuse before I’ve had a go at him. “Shall we start with your name?” He showed her his warrant card, but smiled and scrunched his eyes.

“Alice Martin. My boyfriend, Thomas – he lives here. We had a fight earlier, and it turned -” She thought for a second, swallowed back another wave of tears. “- nasty. I’m worried about him, but his pig of a dad won’t let me talk to him.”

Pig of a dad. No argument from me there, girl.

John rested a hand on her arm. Poor protocol but he’d always been a sucker for a damsel in hysterics. “Is it possible he’s just angry and doesn’t want to see you?”

She stared at him; there was more. “He’s ill. He has… issues.” She opened her mouth to say more but couldn’t.

“Issues, miss?” He waited while her mind worked, her eyes uncertain.

“Mental health problems.”

John gave her a few seconds, then squeezed her arm, nodded at her to continue.

“He cuts himself. Has been doing it for years.” She stopped again, seemed to muster strength to cross some personal threshold. “He’s tried to kill himself four times.” Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. “I’m so worried about him. The way he was talking.”

John nodded again, already empathising more than was good for him. Four suicide attempts suggested desperation but no real will to succeed.

“We’ve argued before, said horrible things to each other. But today he was different. He sounded beaten, like he’d given up, like something broke inside him.”

She sucked in a deep breath, spread her fingers at her waist, steadied herself. “He said, ‘I’ll never be enough, will I?’ and hung up. I called him back, but he wouldn’t answer. He’s cutting himself again, I know he is. I got a text from him an hour ago.” She showed John her phone. “I’m sorry azlice.”

“Azlice?”

More tears. “See? He’s not in his right mind.” Her tone rose, her eyes wild.

John took her hands in his. Maddie cleared her throat, but he ignored her. “Alice, you stay here with my colleague, DS Munro. I’ll go inside and check on -”

“Thomas.”

“OK.” He nodded to Maddie. She led the girl away, but not without flashing John a warning glare first.

John climbed the steps and braced himself to confront The Bastard, a man who could snuff out his career with a phone call.

Two figures huddled behind frosted glass panels either side of the door, before the shorter of the two scurried away. The taller – had to be The Bastard himself – took several more seconds to open up, and then there he stood – Peter Brydon. Brydon the Bastard. A tabloid journo turned financial spiv who bought his respectability on the backs of small businesses sucked dry and gutted over a twenty-year period. After worming his way into various government think-tanks and committees, he’d become the proud owner of a gong and an ermine robe. Lord Brydon the Bastard. Honoured for services to the City, for ensuring fat hedge funds – like his own – didn’t get it in the arse from EU tax legislation.

John remembered nothing about a son with mental health issues though. If true, getting exposed for keeping the poor lad a secret would be a terrible embarrassment for Brydon just when his star was on the rise. John had to hope his famous big mouth didn’t let something slip about that later.

Brydon’s expression showed he sussed John for a copper right away. “What took you so bloody long? Get that wee bitch off my property. Now.”

John stared at him. Living, walking, mouth-breathing proof that money can buy huge houses and swanky motors and invitations to all the best parties, but genuine class couldn’t be bought at any price. John had to wonder if the man left a trail behind him wherever he walked.

He flashed his warrant card at Brydon, who didn’t glance at it.

“The young lady has advised me that your son may be in some danger. I’ll need to check on him, please.” His tone conveyed an instruction rather than a request. He loathed people who thought their shite smelled better because they got their organic muesli delivered to the back door.

Brydon pulled himself up to his full six-foot, sneered down at John like a dog-turd someone had dumped on his porch. John watched him weighing up how a refusal would go down.

John arched his eyebrows. Oh please, just try me you arrogant prick.

“He’s fine. Remove that girl from my property, then you can go.” He stepped back to close the door, but John slapped a hand on the wood, hard enough to emphasise the authority he now very much looked forward to throwing around.

“That won’t be acceptable, sir. The lady has have given me sufficient cause to believe your son may be in danger, so I’m obligated to investigate. Legally, like?” He stepped across the threshold and smiled.

Brydon opened his mouth but shut it again as crunching gravel and flashing blue lights announced the arrival of a patrol car.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. What idiot sent a DS and a DC to a domestic, and then uniformed backup too?

He turned to send the reinforcements packing. Detective Superintendent Richard Whitton climb out of the car, in civvies and looking far from happy. He stomped up the steps, ignored Maddie, nodded to Brydon, and turned on John.

“Problem, Fraser?”

Damn it. Never a good sign when someone that far up the food-chain knows your name.

“No sir. I’ve advised Mr Brydon here that because a report has been made of possible harm to a person, I’m obligated to confirm the safety of the individual. The gentleman was about to fetch his son for me.”

Whitton stared at him, knew attitude when he heard it. He turned to Brydon.

“I’m afraid the officer is correct, sir. Apologies for the inconvenience, but we should check your son is, in fact, safe and well.”

Brydon said nothing. He stared from John to Whitton and back again.

Slippery fucker. What’s he hiding?

A door opened at the back of the hallway and a woman glided toward them across the parquet flooring, her face as stiff and cold as the ridiculous stone lions outside. As the door swung closed, he spotted a massive, gleaming, kitchen beyond.

The Trophy Wife. Perfect make-up, perfect manicure, perfect – and expensive – tits, if tabloid gossip was to be believed. Susanna Brydon. He remembered now – one of those silly bints who became famous for nothing more than being famous. If memory served, she took badly to being relegated from her own global and glamorous brand to mere Mrs Brydon and kicked up an almighty stink at the time. John needed to take care not to offend; that would be unfortunate.

Brydon huffed but stepped back. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Come in.”

His wife flash him a scathing glance but masked it again.

Whitton nodded a small bow and an oily smile. “Detective Superintendent Richard Whitton, Mrs Brydon. We met at a charity ball last October.”

“Yes, Mr Whitton. Lovely to see you again.”

John suppressed a sigh. She doesn’t remember a thing about you, you tosser.

“Please, come through.” Her tone suggested she’d rather have her immaculate scarlet fingernails pulled out.

John waited for Whitton to precede him.

She led them to a sitting-room, where John guessed she’d peered out from earlier. A young man stood, dropped a fountain pen and some papers on the sofa. He glanced at both parents. John felt tension thrumming in the man like a coiled wire.

Brydon crossed the room to stand beside the young man. “My son. As you can see, he’s fine.”

The man stepped forward, shook Whitton’s hand then John’s. “Good evening, pleased to meet you.” His hand was clammy, and he didn’t hold eye contact.

John’s bullshit detector went into over-drive. “You’ll be Mr Thomas Brydon, then?”

The man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

John felt his temper rise. He was no idiot and resented being taken for one. “Please confirm your identity, sir.”

Whitton growled from behind him. “Fraser.”

Aye, I know, play nice.

The young man looked to his parents, then back to John, but he said nothing more.

John turned to Whitton for backup. Whitton stepped forward. “It’s obvious there’s been some confusion here. I’m sure you’ll be willing to forgive the young lady’s distress?”

Brydon puffed himself up. “Fine, but you tell her to piss off and stay away from us.”

Whitton bridled at Brydon’s tone but kept his voice even. “We’ll do that. Thank you for your co-operation. That’ll be all, DS Fraser.”

John stood rooted to the spot. What the hell was Whitton thinking? Did he know something John didn’t? Was this good old political expediency or did they do their funny handshakes at the same lodge?

He did the maths in his head, came up with an answer he almost choked on. “If you say so, sir. We’ll take the young lady home.”

Both Brydon and his wife sagged as if relieved. He recovered, but she allowed the slightest trace of nerves to linger on her face.

John left the room. Whitton remained, no doubt to repair any smouldering bridges. Outside, John couldn’t hold Alice Martin’s gaze, and her hopeful expression turned to disappointment. She collapsed into grief, her red-rimmed and mascara-smeared eyes brimmed over.

Before he could have a wise word with himself, John took her by the arm and led her up the steps and into the house. Maddie, as ever, had his back and followed him in.

I better be bloody right about this.

“You see, Miss? He’s fine.”

The girl glared at the Brydons. “That’s not Thomas. That’s his brother.”

Maddie flashed John a grin that said ‘Well bugger me’.

***

John and Whitton stood in the hallway, their faces inches apart, their discussion whispered but furious.

“They explained that, Fraser. They thought she was talking about Simon, not Thomas.”

“So where’s Thomas? We’re still no bloody closer to confirming the lad’s all right, are we?”

Whitton pinched his fingers in his eyes. “Fraser, talk to me like that again and I’ll have you dumped back to DC, you hear me? You want to go for two demotions in one year?”

John held his hands up in a grudged apology. “But sir – in bed with a migraine? That’s all she’s got?”

Whitton’s shoulders slumped. He had to know they couldn’t walk out of here without seeing the lad. Not now. “Fine. We check on the boy then we leave. We don’t even wake him, understood?”

“Thank you. Sir. I’ll sleep better if I see him safe and well.”

“Let me do the bloody talking.”

John stepped aside and gestured for Whitton to go get them.

“Mr Brydon. I’m afraid I must insist. We can’t ignore a credible concern once raised. Please show us to your son’s room. Thomas’s room.”

All three Brydons looked at each other. Simon’s – the brother’s – face revealed confusion. His mother stared at his father as if demanding he deal with this, clean up his mess. John itched to get on with it; Brydon was guilty as fuck of something even if just being a shite parent. Trophy wife sat on the sofa, crossed her perfect wee feet at the ankles, clasped her hands in her lap.

Brydon glared back at her. A sneer touched his lips. She pretended to notice a chip in one of her fingernails, produced a file from her cardigan pocket and worked at the lacquer. Her eyes remained locked on John’s, arrogant and complacent.

John turned to Brydon. You’re on your own now, Bastard.

Brydon folded his arms in front of him. “That won’t be possible. Thomas needs darkness and quiet when he has a migraine. I can check on him if you like, but no-one else.”

Whitton frowned. His face drained to an ashen grey.

You getting it at last, you idiot?

John had to give credit where due – Whitton looked ready to force the issue regardless of the inevitable political fallout. “Mr Brydon. Please show us to your son’s room, or we’ll find it ourselves.”

Brydon froze. Trophy Wife closed her eyes and swallowed. She’d make a shite poker player.

Whitton turned to John. “Detective Sergeant Fraser, take Detective Constable Munro and locate Thomas Brydon. Be discrete. Leave Miss Martin with a uniform for now.”

***

Brydon and his wife stomped up the staircase after John and Maddie, bitching at them all the way and demanding they leave their son in peace. John ignored them, his mind set on learning what made even their kind defy a Detective Superintendent.

“Which room?”

Brydon said nothing.

John swore under his breath and opened the first door. The bedroom inside, and the next three, looked immaculate, the fourth a shambles – had to be Thomas’s. Piles of clothing lay on chairs. Posters for Emo and Metal bands festooned the walls. A guitar and amp sat in one corner, a computer on a desk in another, the keyboard and mouse pad surrounded by chocolate wrappers and drinks cans. A foil take-away tray overflowed with ash and the air hung heavy with the spicy-sweet smell of pot. Was that what this was about? A couple of spliffs?

No sign of Thomas Brydon, but a framed photo of a smiling young man with Alice Martin further confirmed they had the right room.

John turned to another door. A light shone under it. He heard an intake of breath from behind him. Mrs Brydon stared at the door, her face in shadow but her eyes glittering.

John turned the handle and pushed. Locked.

He knocked. ‘Mr Brydon? Thomas? Are you OK? Can you open the door, please?’

Silence.

‘Mr Brydon? Please open the door, or I’ll have to force it.’

Silence.

He stepped back to boot it in but Maddie grabbed his arm. She produced a multi-tool from somewhere and folded out a steel blade, inserted it into a screw head on the lock and turned.

John opened the door. Steam wafted out and coated his face.

Thomas Brydon lay in the bath, neck-deep in scarlet water, a straight-edged razor on the floor beside him.

John lunged for the boy, lifted his arms, found cuts across his wrists and down his forearms. He felt for a pulse but felt none. Thomas’s waxy white pallor told him all he needed to know. He let the lad slide back into the bath and hung his head, choked down a knot of anger that could only distract him right now. The bath-water was still warm; if he’d wasted less time at the front door, might he have saved the poor bastard? And spared himself another stain on his conscience to hound him through long nights when he couldn’t sleep for counting his failings?

He peered into the crimson-stained water, thick with blood. “Maddie, call an ambulance, but we’re too late.”

Whitton appeared at the door and his face fell. Sympathy with the poor sod in the tub? More likely horror at the imminent self-destruction of his career.

Whitton rubbed his hand down his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

John stood. “Quite, sir.” With an effort, he looked at the loving parents, forced his hands to stay at his sides but let venom fill his gaze. Brydon turned white, his expression appalled but – John would bet his pension – not surprised. He swallowed, backed out of the bathroom, and wandered away. Thomas’s mother stared at her son, her perfect posture stiff, her eyes cold, distaste pursing her lips. She followed her husband. John and Whitton stared at each other.

“Funny how grief affects people, isn’t it, sir?”

John examined Thomas Brydon more closely. His forearms were a mess of old cuts. If his parents had got him professional help, might things be different now? Did they at least bring someone in on the quiet, paid over the odds for discretion, to stop the black-sheep of the family from tarnishing their precious reputation? From the look of the lad – unshaven, his hair long and dread-locked, sleeve tattoos covering a multitude of scars – he’d never have sat front-and-centre in any Brydon family portrait.

But Alice Martin loved him, and now he had to go downstairs and wreck her life. He hated this part of the job.

He forced himself to lean closer. The slashes across the boy’s wrists looked shallow but those down his forearms had cut deep; the poor fucker meant it this time.

Words floated up in his mind. ‘I’ll never be enough, will I?’

No, mate, I’m afraid you never would.

Rage surged up John’s throat. Did Brydon know what his boy was doing and left him to it? Persuaded himself his tormented – and embarrassing – son would be better off dead?

He dragged himself out of the bathroom and downstairs, took a moment before stepping outside to face Alice. With one look at him she collapsed against a female officer. PC Jen Stevenson. He smiled at her, and she nodded back, solemn and reassuring. The girl was in good hands.

Maddie took up position at the foot of the inside stairs to wait for the paramedics to arrive. John barged through the sitting room door; he wanted answers.

Whitton was talking in hushed tones to Brydon, but intercepted John. “You handle procedural matters, Fraser. I’ll handle the family.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will, sir.” The words were out of John’s mouth before he could take hold of his temper. Whitton raised an eyebrow at his tone, his expression promising dire consequences for any further insubordination. John glared one more time at the Brydons and stormed out.

He sat at the top of the outside steps and hauled deep breaths of cold, evening air into his lungs, imagined it filling him to his fingertips, flushing him clean of the rancid atmosphere in the house.

PC Jen crouched by a nearby bench, her hands on Alice’s, clasped in her lap. The girl’s head hung down, her shoulders shuddering as she sobbed. John ached to offer his comfort, but shame rooted him to the cold stone step; if he hadn’t wasted so much time…

Maddie appeared and sat beside him, half-turned toward the open door to watch the staircase. “You OK, boss?”

He smiled up at her. “Aye, peachy. You?”

“Ambulance is en route. I called it in as a crime scene. Wasn’t sure Whitton would agree, so I didn’t ask. Funny though – the SOCOs already knew about this shout. They’re coming – and I quote – at once.”

“Good girl.”

“You get that one for free. Next one gets you a slap, bud.”

She tried to look stern, but affection gleamed in her eyes.

They sat in silence for five minutes. A second uniform appeared with a bottle of water and a blanket. He passed them to Jen and returned to finish taping off the driveway. Whitton remained inside, and John would bet his pension on who was doing most of the talking.

***

When an ambulance arrived, John jumped to his feet; he wanted answers before Brydon or Whitton got to them.

“Maddie, can you co-ordinate down here? I’m going upstairs with the paramedics? I have a few questions for them when they’ve seen the boy.”

Maddie flashed him a well-intentioned, but irritating, warning to be good.

As he passed the door to the sitting-room, Whitton ended a call on his mobile and called his name. John swore under his breath but stopped and had to watch the ambulance crew climb the staircase without him. Maddie noticed, nodded to him, and followed them. John waited in the hallway.

Whitton closed the sitting-room door behind him.

Fuck’s sake, here we go.

“I’ve had a call from the Assistant Chief Constable.”

Yep, one large bucket of white-wash, coming up.

“Let me guess, sir – utmost discretion?”

Whitton sighed, let his eyes admit to what he wouldn’t say out loud. “Pretty much. The poor lad had a fight with his girlfriend and – unsurprisingly given his obvious issues – cut himself badly enough to finish the job this time. We’ll follow protocol, of course, but unless we find something suspicious – and conclusive – the Fiscal’s office is unlikely to take it any further.”

“So that’s it?”

Whitton held his gaze for a moment, shared his unspoken mutual distaste for the situation. “Yes, DS Fraser. That’s it.”

John swallowed, watched Whitton dare him to kick off. “Understood.” Then the briefest pause before squeezing “Sir.” through his teeth.

Whitton nodded, seemed happy that John intended to comply. He returned to the sitting-room and closed the door behind him.

John bit down on a knot of anger deep in his guts. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you can only grab your ankles and think of your pension.

He climbed the stairs to see the charade through, but as soon as he stepped into the bathroom he knew something was wrong. The air hung thick with more than steam.

“What?”

Maddie and one of the ambulance crew – Terry, his badge said – shared a look. Terry shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the bathtub. Maddie took John by the elbow and led him out to the hallway.

“What the fuck’s going on now? I just had to swallow a load of Whitton’s political shite so I’m in no mood for more shite.”

“You know how only one or two percent of wrist-slashings results in death?”

“Aye. So?”

“Most people cut across the wrist, but even if they hit both arteries, they can spasm and close up, right? So, they see their own blood, maybe lose enough to pass out, but survive long enough for someone to find them alive?”

“Aye?”

“So, it looks like this poor sod did just that, but he realised his mistake and cut down his arms afterwards. Right?”

“Aye. He meant it this time, wanted to finish himself.”

“I assumed that too, but my new pal, Terry, says the cuts don’t fit that scenario.”

John scowled. Was there any point to conjecture? Whitton had made it clear nothing would stick to the Teflon Toffs downstairs. But he nodded at her to continue.

“OK, from the layout of his keyboard and mouse pad it looks like the boy was right-handed. So, he’ll have cut his left wrist with his right hand first, aye?”

“Fair assumption.”

“So you might expect the cut on his right wrist to be shallower because he damaged his left wrist first and it was his less-favoured hand, right?”

“Aye?” One of his legendary bad feelings tickled at the back of his mind.

“Terry says the cuts to his right wrist are deeper, not shallower. Deeper and more … ‘confident‘ than those on his left.”

“Meaning?” But he already knew what was coming.

“He was right-handed, but the cuts he made with his left hand are deeper? It’s almost as if someone else made that second cut.”

John imagined his pension evaporating away to nothing. It could be career-ending, at best, to even suggest a Lord of the realm murdered his own son.

But he didn’t have it in him to walk away, never did.

Back downstairs, stubborn determination battled with his limited capacity for common sense. At the sight of the door to the kitchen, from where Mrs Brydon had appeared, his inner idiot awoke, and he cursed it for what it told him to do.

He threw open the door to the sitting-room and marched in.

‘Well, we’ll be off, sir. As you say, looks very like the poor, tormented lad did this to himself. My deepest condolences to you, Mr and Mrs Brydon.’

All four people stared at him – young Simon in confusion, Brydon and his wife with suspicion, Whitton with a look of dread.

‘Before I go do you think I could help myself to a glass of water I know where the kitchen is I’ll see myself through thanks so much very kind of you.’ He rattled the words out without stopping for breath as he turned and crossed the hallway to the kitchen door. He heard frantic footsteps follow him.

The kitchen looked bigger than his entire flat. He grabbed a glass from the draining tray next to the sink, filled it from the tap.

The Brydons burst through the door but pulled up short. Whitton appeared behind them, fury contorting his face.

John stared at both Brydons and swallowed long, slow, mouthfuls of the water as he waited.

Surreal as the situation was, nobody spoke. Both Brydons stood frozen. John waited. It took three seconds to get what he wanted.

Mrs Brydon glanced at a cupboard under the sink, then jerked her gaze away and up to the ceiling.

Fucking got you.

Whitton found his voice at last. “Detective Sergeant Fraser. You will return to the station and wait there for further instructions.”

“Certainly, sir.” He took another drink, spilled the rest of the water down the front of his shirt and onto the stone floor tiles.

“Oops.” He tore a handful of kitchen paper from a roll on the counter and crouched to wipe the wet floor. He scrunched up the sodden paper and reached for the cupboard door. Mrs Brydon lunged forward, but he was too quick.

“Rubbish goes in here, aye?”

Inside sat a plastic bin, the lid open. On top of the contents, lay a pair of latex gloves. The beading around the cuff of one bore a trace of brown residue, and John knew drying blood when he saw it.

“Sir?” He moved to one side. Brydon stared at the gloves, horrified. Mrs Brydon sagged backwards against a worktop, stared at her husband, appalled, looked like she might puke. Whitton pushed between them and looked into the cupboard. His face faded to a sickly grey for the second time in half an hour.

Maddie appeared in the doorway, took two seconds to assess the scene, and placed herself between both Brydons and the open cupboard.

John stood. “Sir?”

Whitton looked like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. He swallowed, then nodded. Even he stared at Brydon in disgust.

From somewhere in her jacket, Maddie produced a plastic evidence bag and a pair of disposable tweezers. Where the hell does she keep all this stuff? She unwrapped the business end of the tweezers and snagged the gloves, dropped them into the bag, sealed the zip-lock, and handed it to John.

John looked to Brydon, dared him to throw his weight around now. Brydon closed his eyes and swallowed. John sneered and shook his head.

Your own son, you sick fucker.

He examined the gloves through the plastic bag. A speck of red caught his eye, stuck inside one of the rubber fingertips that hadn’t turned completely inside-out on removal. He angled the bag under a ceiling spotlight to get a clear line of sight to it. Maddie produced a pocket magnifying glass.

Whitton leaned in. “What is that? More blood?”

John re-positioned the glass, brought the tiny red fragment into sharp focus. He’d thought his stomach couldn’t feel worse, but nausea swept up his throat and he choked down a bitter acid burn.

“No, sir.”

He turned to young Thomas Brydon’s parents. His father stared back in confusion. His mother glared at John with cold, hard, murder in her eyes.

“It’s nail polish. Isn’t it, Mrs Brydon?”