Page 140 of Forever, Maybe
She’d gone inside to change her socks and attempt a haphazard patch-up job on the wellies using duct tape. Then, out of habit, she’d checked her emails.
The usual junk. Salesy newsletters from places she’d never got round to unsubscribing from. Notifications from Instagram and LinkedIn.
And one from an unknown address. No subject line.
Ordinarily, she would have deleted it without a second thought. But instead, she clicked. Anything to delay stepping back into the cold.
Dear Ms Murray, I’m sorry to contact you out of the blue like this. My name’s…
Her heartbeat thudded—loud in her ears, tight in her forehead. Fingers trembling, she clicked out of the email. Then, just as quickly, clicked back in. The words leapt at her, sharp and impossible to ignore.
And then she saw them—the attachments at the bottom.
A photograph.
She hesitated, then downloaded it. Opened it. Zoomed in. Zoomed out.
Put her head in her hands and wept.
And wept.
And wept.
When the sobs finally ebbed, she had returned to the garden. Spoken to Sandra. Brushed dark, nutty-smelling linseed oil over the furniture, sealing it for winter. Pretended, for a little while, that she hadn’t seen what she’d seen.
But she had.
Later, when her hands had stopped shaking, she opened the email once more.
And typed out a response.
Yes.
Chapter sixty
MartinHodgson,despiterepeatedwarnings that libel law was not his forte, cast a weary eye over theScottish Postarticle the next day. Daniel, meanwhile, had spent a thoroughly miserable evening envisioning Civil Recovery Unit officers turning up at his door, brandishing seizure warrants and demanding he hand over the business.
Holed up in the one-bedroom flat Holly had found for him on Wilton Street close to the River Kelvin—sparsely furnished, the walls bare—he fielded calls from various people, none of them bringing good news.
Trish was first. She insisted her brother had been unfairly targeted, then dissolved into hiccupping sobs as she confessed how much money he’d given her to buy the Paisley Road West house back in the nineties.
“I’m sure youtinkthis serves me right!” she said, enough of her Irish accent lingering to twistthinkintotink. “What I deserve for taking money from a criminal while preaching at you about leaving your wife and committing adultery!”
Daniel shut his eyes and drummed his free hand against his thigh. “No, Mum. I don’t. And I’m sure your house is safe.”
The rest of the conversation blurred—words tumbling over each other, some sharp with indignation, others oddly placed, emphasis landing where it shouldn’t. When she finally paused, he seized his chance.
“Mum, I need to go.”
He hung up to a chorus of protests.
The supermarket buyer called next. The retailer’s external marketing team had flagged the article—part of their routine monitoring of newspapers and websites for brand risks. A store built on family values and a wholesome reputation couldn’t afford to be associated with someone even potentially linked to organised crime. She would need to escalate the matter to the high heid yins and get back to him.
Online, the reaction was swift and brutal. The comments section had already declared a verdict. Shane O’Malley was a wrong ’un, and anything connected to him should be seized immediately. Some of the vitriol had found its way to Daniel. Snide remarks about howStuffed!was overrated and overpriced. A supposed victim claiming they’d contracted severe food poisoning from a prawn sandwich purchased from one of his vans atT in the Parkfour years ago.
“Fuck you, pal,” he muttered, fingers twitching over the keyboard, ready to fire back an expletive-ridden reply.
But then Joe’s voice rang in his head, clear as day. A firm but easy-going hand on his shoulder.Mate, ye dinnae feed the trolls, aye?
