No Man's Land Page 11

  When Guthrie had finished speaking, Danny stepped in to usher the press out as Ford made for the door to the anteroom. He opened it for the chief, was just about to follow him through, when his phone buzzed. He cursed himself as he pulled it out of his pocket. He had meant to switch the damned thing off before the press conference, but at least he’d remembered to put it on silent this time.

  He glanced at the screen, an unfamiliar number displayed. Hit answer, raised it to his ear.

  ‘DCI Ford,’ he said, closing the door to the anteroom.

  ‘Nice work just now,’ a familiar voice said. ‘What was that? Freeze me out for being a bad girl at the uni?’

  ‘Ms Blake,’ Ford said, pushing down the surge of fury he felt towards Danny. ‘I’m curious as to how you got this number. I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I was merely—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Donna Blake hissed. ‘I know exactly what you were doing, I heard about your boss’s little call to Sky. But it doesn’t matter. You can make it up to me right now.’

  ‘And how can I do that?’ Ford said, feeling a grudging amusement. He had to give it to her, Donna Blake was persistent. ‘And, more importantly, why?’

  Donna barked a laugh. ‘I need a bit of background on the victim,’ she said. ‘See, I know you’ve had no luck tracking her down at the hotel, and her notebook makes it seem likely she was attending a conference there. But mostly I’m interested in the book you found with her, and the dedication.’

  Ford’s headache snarled back into life, anger pulsing through him. How the hell did she know this? The answer was obvious. Danny. He gritted his teeth and bit back what he wanted to say. When he spoke, his voice was atonal. ‘Any details fit for public consumption were made available at the conference, Ms Blake. Anything else you may have is hearsay and I will not comment further. Are we clear?’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ Donna said. ‘But the dedication in the book is confusing me a little.’ There was a pause, the rustle of notes, and then she was back, quoting the words to him. Words he had puzzled over. ‘“Not the same edition, but the same horror story. Hope you like it. See you soon, L.”’

  She paused just long enough to enjoy his discomfort as it screamed across the silent phone line between them. The dedication meant nothing as far as she knew. But it was a way to show she was informed about the case and someone to take seriously.

  ‘Any comment?’ she asked.

  ‘None at the moment,’ Ford replied, fighting to keep the relief out of his voice. ‘You should check with your sources, Ms Blake. They’re not as good as you think they are.’

  He killed the call, looked back at the now-deserted conference room. Considered. What the hell did Blake have over Danny to get him to tell her that? At least Danny had been smart and not told her everything. That one decision might just have saved his job.

  Maybe.

  She had been right on the dedication, with one glaring omission. It told them more than she thought, gave them their first and only real clue in the case. It was why they had decided not to release it to the public. Yes, it might have helped speed the identification, but it was also a good way of screening out the cranks who would undoubtedly come crawling out of the woodwork.

  He thought again of the words, written in black pen in small, neat capitals on the inside front cover of the book.

  ‘Not the same edition, but the same horror story. Hope you like it, Connie. See you soon – L.’

  They didn’t know who she was, what she was doing at the hotel or why she had been singled out to die so horribly. But they knew one thing about the woman dumped in the shadow of the Wallace Monument.

  They knew her first name was Connie.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Portcullis was a hotel and bar at the top of the town, next to the castle esplanade. With its stained granite walls, traditional white windows and proximity to the castle and the Old Town Cemetery, which sprawled across the valley that connected the castle to the Holy Rude Church and Cowane’s Hospital, it was always busy with tourists thirsty for a pint and a taste of local history.

  Donna stood outside, heart hammering. She had told herself she wasn’t coming here, had done everything in her power to drag out her post-press-conference work for as long as possible. She had taken extra time over the audio for Gina, and the video package for Sky. Luckily, it wasn’t a live OB, and she was able to fluff lines and miss takes just enough to drag things out.

  When she had finished, warning both Fiona and Gina that the story was likely to draw more ire from the police, she looked at her watch. She had been more than an hour. There was no way he would be waiting. It would be a pointless trip. And, besides, she had no intention of seeing him anyway.

  But somehow, she found herself in front of the pub, watching tourists come and go. The sight of Mark’s car was like a gut punch, robbing her of the ability to breathe.

  They had met when she was working on the Westie, which had a reputation for breaking big stories and getting beyond the headlines. That was how Mark Sneddon had come to work there: a former political reporter based at Holyrood with one of the nationals, he had been courted by the editor of the Westie to head up their political coverage. He had a reputation as a good reporter, had broken a few big stories at Holyrood and had claimed the scalp of a backbencher who had been forced to resign from the committee hearing evidence on taxation: Mark had dug up his link to an Edinburgh hedge fund with a vested interest in protecting its clients’ tax anonymity. Made political editor, he had quickly moved on to the newsdesk, allowed to draw from the general reporting pool to cover the stories he thought needed extra manpower.

  They’d met when he was being given the tour of the office. And while he wasn’t what Donna normally thought of as her type, there was something about him that caught her attention. The easy smile maybe, or the relaxed manner and self-deprecating humour. He was a welcome change from news editor Charlie Banks and his opinion that all his reporters were shite: the best way to motivate them, he reckoned, was to berate their copy and pile on the work.

  She found herself confiding in Mark, telling him about her problems with getting stories placed in the paper, the feeling that Charlie Banks didn’t rate her or her work. She was flattered when he took the time to listen to her, worked with her on her stories, stood up for her with Charlie and encouraged her to push herself more.

  So obvious, she thought now, gazing at his car. Build up her confidence, be her confidant, her friend. The bigshot reporter who could see the talent in her that her bosses couldn’t.

  Things had started to change a couple of months later. They were both working a late shift, filing for the early edition the next day, and ended up having a quick drink at Sloans in the Argyle Arcade while he waited for his train to Edinburgh, where he lived with his wife. He had never made any secret of the fact he was married, always wore the wedding ring, spoke about his wife openly with Donna or other colleagues. On the outside, it seemed he had the perfect marriage, another reason Donna didn’t see him as anything other than a friend.

  But that night, as time wore on and the conversation thawed from the professional to the personal, he confided in her that all was not well at home, that his wife, who worked in HR and to strict hours, didn’t understand that his days were unpredictable, the hours unsociable. ‘You know,’ he said, staring into his Guinness, ‘she says I use the job as an excuse not to see her. And, Donna, I’m starting to think she’s right.’

  It was the moment the alarms should have rung for Donna. After all, it wasn’t like she was looking for a serious relationship, or short of offers of company. But she liked Mark. And, besides, they were just friends, weren’t they?

  That changed on a leaving night for a colleague, who was following the increasingly well-worn path from the newsroom to a PR agency. The night started with drinks in Sloans, then moved to the Merchant City. There was food and more drink. And then more.

  Sitting in a cocktail bar in Merchant S
quare, the crowd thinning out, Donna suddenly realized the time. ‘Haven’t you missed your train?’ she asked Mark.

  He gave her the slow, lazy smile of someone who was just pissed enough to be mellow, and leant in close. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a room at the Radisson across from Central. Told Emma I had an early job in town, so they were putting me up for the night. She wasn’t happy about it, but . . .’ He shrugged, raising his glass in a toast.

  Nothing happened that night – Mark didn’t push it and Donna didn’t want to be the clichéd co-worker who ended up having a drunken fumble with a colleague in a hotel room. But it opened the door to the possibility in her mind, made it slowly solidify into an inevitability.

  Six months later, they were sleeping together, and Mark was a semi-regular guest at her flat in Hillhead, on the west of the city. She should have known better – she did know better – but something about the illicit thrill of it was addictive: seeing him at work, acting as though nothing was going on, then her leaving and him following her home hours later. His nights in Edinburgh became fewer, until one night, while he was off and she was in the newsroom, she got a text: I’m in Edinburgh. Miserable. This isn’t home any more. I’m going to leave Emma. Want to be with you. xx

  The joy that text unleashed surprised her, as if it destroyed the dam holding back everything she didn’t want to think or feel about what she was doing to another woman’s life. They talked about it for weeks, planned his move, the perfect time, how they would tell everyone in the office. It was perfect, and Donna saw a new life start to unfold in front of her.

  Until the pregnancy test.

  She shook her head, the familiar anger glowing like a hot coal in her stomach. Blinked back tears as she looked at his car, then started to walk away. She’d only gone about a hundred yards when her phone beeped. She snatched it out of her bag, expecting it to be Gina or Fiona. The pieces should have aired on Valley and Sky by now, so the bollocking from the police was probably already well under way.

  She stopped dead when she saw it was a message from Mark.

  Saw you standing outside, understand if you don’t want to talk. But this isn’t about us, it’s about the story. Think I can help you, Donna. I’ve got an in. I owe you that much at least. Will wait another five minutes then leave. Mx

  She stared at the screen, felt a maelstrom of emotions churn within her. Bastard. He always knew the right buttons to push with her. She should walk away, leave him waiting, just like he had done to her and Andrew.

  Andrew. She remembered Mark’s promises of a new life together, felt the bitterness flare again.

  But . . .

  She looked down at the screen again. I’ve got an in. I owe you that much.

  She chewed her lip, thinking fast. After Ford’s little act at the press conference, she wasn’t going to get anything else from him, and it was unlikely she could push Danny much further.

  I’ve got an in.

  Donna looked up at the afternoon sky and cursed. Then she took a deep breath and felt her face arrange itself into the cold, detached look she normally reserved for her mum. She would see what he had for her. But she would be damned if he’d get even a glimpse of what he had taken from her.

  CHAPTER 27

  Jennifer MacKenzie lived in a flat in the Woodlands, a development that had been carved out of a patch of ground just off Livilands Lane, a popular suburban area of the city known for its wide streets, large stone-fronted homes and access to good schools. It was a place for families – which might have been why it made Connor uneasy.

  She lived on the top floor of a three-storey block tucked away at the rear of the development. The door was a standard intercom and deadlock routine: a visitor would buzz the appropriate flat, speak into the mic and the owner could buzz them in. Connor made a mental note as he pushed Jen’s buzzer. She had asked him to give his professional opinion on security at her flat to placate her father. But how much should he tell her? The entry system was fine for day-to-day use, but anyone who really wanted to get inside could circumvent it easily enough. Copy the service key, tailgate a delivery driver inside, wait for the postman, override the system – but there was a fine line between security awareness and paranoia. He thought again of the gun he had held earlier, wondered if he knew where that line was.

  The door buzzed and popped open, and he stepped inside to a narrow, well-lit hallway. He looked around, found no lift, which was good. Confined spaces for a target were always a problem, and lifts, especially in residential blocks like this, magnified it. It was all too easy to get into a lift, hit the emergency stop and stick a knife between your victim’s ribs.

  Connor shook his head, admonishing himself. There it was again. His gran called it his Doomsday gift – the ability to see the worst in any situation. And he couldn’t argue. He had a tendency to fatalism, an ability to seek out the worst in every situation and dwell on it. It was like a dark cloud that shaded his thinking, filled every shadow with menace – it sparked his paranoia and the ludicrous thought that Jonny Hughes was somehow involved in the murders across the city. It was a characteristic he didn’t like about himself but, he was forced to admit, it was useful in his line of work, where planning for the worst could keep his clients safe, secure, and breathing.

  He took the steps to Jen’s flat two at a time, gripped by a sudden urge to move, and found her door at the end of a short corridor it shared with one other. He expected the door to open as he approached, her waiting to let him in after buzzing the entry door, but it remained closed. Connor approved. It was an all-too-common mistake. Buzz the main door open, then swing open your own front door without thinking. It took away another possible line of defence, left you open and vulnerable.

  He knocked on the door, the sound echoing along the corridor. A heavy lock disengaged, then it swung open.

  Connor took a half-step backwards, cursing himself even as he stretched his face into a smile. He was so focused on thinking about Jen’s potential vulnerability, he’d forgotten to think about his own.

  Stupid. And careless.

  A large, heavy-set man was wedged into the doorway, like an adult standing at the entrance to a Wendy house. What he lacked in height – Connor guessed he wasn’t much more than five foot four – he more than made up for in width. A dark shirt was stretched tight across a barrel chest and strained at the waistband, the shirt-sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms stained with dark tattoos. Wisps of white-blond hair clung defiantly to his head, which gleamed in the light from the hall. He looked Connor up and down, his jaw working soundlessly, a darker, crueller version of his daughter’s eyes boring into him.

  ‘Mr MacKenzie,’ Connor said, offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Connor Fraser.’

  If Jen’s father was surprised that Connor knew who he was, he showed no sign of it. He grunted, took a slow step forward, easing the door shut behind him. ‘Ah ken who you are, son,’ he said, his accent putting him somewhere between Edinburgh and Broxburn to Connor’s ear. ‘Paulie told me all about you.’

  Connor felt tension crawl into his shoulders, the first shot of adrenalin chilling the back of his neck. Shit. ‘Just an unfortunate misunderstanding,’ he said, keeping his voice as level as his gaze.

  ‘Unfortunate, my arse. You broke three of his fuckin’ fingers.’

  ‘Purely in self-defence. I could have done a lot worse.’

  Something sparked in MacKenzie’s eyes, a flare scudding across a dark sky, and his jaw started to work faster. In the sudden charged silence of the hallway, Connor could have sworn he heard teeth grinding.

  After a moment, MacKenzie seemed to deflate, as though whatever had been capering behind his eyes had fled. ‘Aye, well, just don’t try to be a smart cunt again, okay?’

  Connor swallowed down a flash of anger at being told what to do. ‘Never my intention, sir, I was just—’

  He was cut short by the door swinging open, Jen standing there, giving her father a hard
stare. ‘Dad,’ she said, her voice lyrical with the singsong admonishment only a daughter can give a father, ‘I told you to leave it. If Connor said it was self-defence, it was. You know what Paulie’s like. He probably asked for it.’

  ‘Aye, he probably did at that,’ MacKenzie said, his own voice heavy with the knowledge that he was never going to win this argument. He stretched out a hand to Connor, who returned the hard shake with a smile as empty as MacKenzie’s.

  ‘Duncan MacKenzie, pleased to meet you, son,’ he said, although he and Connor knew the opposite was true. ‘Was just popping in on Jen, see how she was.’

  ‘What he’s trying to say is he’s just leaving,’ Jen said, her eyes taking on some of her father’s harsh focus. ‘Weren’t you, Dad?’

  MacKenzie’s eyes flitted between Connor and his daughter, torn. Then he took a breath and straightened himself to his full height, such as it was. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I guess I am.’ He turned back to Jen, kissed her cheek and gave her a clumsy squeeze of a hug. Connor watched as his posture shifted and relaxed, trying to contort his rough exterior into some approximation of tenderness for his little girl.

  ‘See you later, Dad,’ Jen whispered into his neck.

  MacKenzie took a step back. ‘Will do, sweetheart.’ He was halfway along the hall when he stopped and turned, as though remembering something he had forgotten. ‘I took your advice, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Connor asked.

  ‘You told Paulie I should look you up. So I did. Sentinel Securities, protection for VIPs, politicians and the like?’

  Connor nodded, the joints in his neck feeling as though they were filled with sand. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Good,’ MacKenzie said. ‘Because Jen is a VIP. Understood, Fraser?’

  Connor let the silence fall between them, his eyes locking with MacKenzie’s. There was nothing he liked in that gaze, and everything he recognized. Fury. The overwhelming desire to protect. A pleading not to hurt the person he loved. He’d seen that look before: it had stared back at him from the mirror in Belfast as he tried to wash blood off his shaking hands. ‘Understood,’ he said, suddenly aware of Jen standing beside him.