No Man's Land Page 8

  ‘I’m honestly not sure, sir,’ Ford had replied. And he wasn’t. He had his suspicions, though.

  Doyle had finished the call with dark promises to complain to the head of news at Sky, throwing around the well-used and ultimately useless phrases ‘jeopardizing an ongoing investigation’, ‘irresponsible journalism’ and, Ford’s favourite, ‘interfering with an active crime scene’. He had swallowed a laugh at that one – the pictures, while ethically on dodgy ground, had clearly been taken with a telephoto lens, from outside the crime scene, beyond the screens that the SOCOs had hurriedly erected around the body.

  Luckily for the photographer.

  He sighed, closed his eyes and rubbed them, as though he could reach through the sockets and get to the headache nestled there. He considered calling Mary again, but she had already assured him she was fine – she had gone to one of the uni muster points and was now safely at home. Her only condition was that he didn’t make today another late one. He agreed, both of them knowing it was a lie.

  He straightened, smoothed his tie and headed into the main incident room. It was quieter than he’d expected, partly because officers had been assigned leads to track down, partly because staff shortages meant there weren’t enough left to fill an incident room. He felt eyes fall on him as he headed straight for DS Troughton, who was perched at a desk just in front of the incident board, poring over reports.

  The detective looked up as Ford approached, apprehension pulling his doughy features into a saggy grimace.

  ‘Troughton,’ Ford said, watching the DS flinch at the mention of his name. Christ, was this what passed for a police detective these days?

  ‘Sir?’ Troughton asked, his voice as soft as his gut.

  ‘Troughton, I’ve got an update meeting with Specialist Division in less than half an hour. After which,’ he sighed, the thought like toothache, ‘I have to appear before the press and give the vague impression that we know what the fuck is going on. Anything you can tell me to help with that?’

  Troughton’s cheeks coloured, his eyes darting from Ford to the reports strewn in front of them, as though they were some sort of security blanket. ‘Well, sir, I, ah . . .’ He sat up straighter. Put some steel into his voice. It wasn’t much, but it helped. ‘SOCOs are still processing the scene, but you saw most of it yourself. The victim was severely beaten and dumped at the foot of a fire escape leading from the, ah . . .’ Troughton consulted his notes ‘. . . the Wallace conference room.’

  Ford knew the room in question, had attended dinners and functions there over the years. It was large, open-plan, only made exceptional by its commanding view of the Wallace Monument, which loomed down on the uni from its perch, like the hilt of some giant Gothic dagger that had been stabbed into the summit of Abbey Craig.

  ‘While the post-mortem examination has yet to be completed, there are similarities to the injuries found on the body at Cowane’s Hospital yesterday – severe trauma, signs of a sustained beating with a blunt instrument, especially around the joints.’

  ‘One big difference, though,’ Ford said, his gaze creeping irresistibly up to the picture of Billy Griffin. Look at me. ‘This one wasn’t decapitated.’

  Troughton cleared his throat. ‘Ah, no, sir, but there was a deep laceration to the victim’s neck – might even have been the cause of death.’

  Ford grunted, thinking back to the body he had seen less than an hour before. Limbs splayed at odd angles like a child’s carelessly discarded toy, lying in a blast crater of violence and pain, blood spattering the grass, black against the lush, vibrant green. If it was the cause of death, at least it would have been quicker than what Billy Griffin endured. ‘Any luck on identification?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Troughton said, flicking through the reports. ‘The hotel doesn’t report having any guests matching the description we managed to compile, and there was no definitive identification or even a mobile phone on the body or in the victim’s belongings.’

  Ford’s headache was aggravated by the maddening itch that such details always gave him. Robbery obviously wasn’t the motive, so why try to hide the victim’s ID by taking their wallet and phone, especially when the bag and notepad had been left behind? Forensics had the bag, a book found nearby and the notepad for examination, but a cursory examination appeared to indicate it was a journal or a collection of notes.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, reaching down and sliding one of the reports across the table, away from Troughton. ‘We’ve got nothing that conclusively links this to the Griffin murder, but there are enough similarities to suggest that’s the case. Christ, the press are going to fucking love that.’

  Troughton cleared his throat a second time, as though being deprived of his files had also robbed him of his voice.

  Ford ignored him, found what he wanted. It was a picture of the victim. Thankfully, the face was masked by a thick mop of shoulder-length dark hair that had been thrown over the back of the head, presumably by the force of the impact with the ground.

  One question clamoured for an answer in his mind, blotting out the fatigue and the headache.

  Who was she?

  CHAPTER 19

  He looked at the phone cradled in his hands, the cold, calculating words he had just heard echoing in his mind like a fading gunshot.

  ‘It’s done. I’ll expect payment in the next twenty-four hours.’

  He seized on the harshness of the words, wrapped them around himself like a perverse blanket. Murder reduced to a financial transaction. Forget the throwing up, forget the guilt, the shock and the revulsion. It was a business transaction. Nothing more. A necessary evil to protect him and everything he had built over years.

  Perched on a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, a muted TV told him the story. For the second time in two days, a body had been found in Stirling, this time at the university campus near Bridge of Allan. He knew it well, had spent many hours there, staring out across Airthrey Loch between lectures, the Wallace Monument looming on the horizon like a harbinger of things to come.

  Which, he supposed, in a way it had been.

  He was about to turn off the TV when he saw a line of text crawl across the bottom of the screen. Nine words. Nine simple words that plunged a shard of ice into his chest, sucked the air from the room and made time stop dead.

  ‘Officers are investigating a possible link between the murders.’

  He felt his calm begin to splinter, the terror bubbling beneath threatening to burst through the all-too-flimsy surface. No. It wasn’t possible, was it? Could they make a connection? Would they? And, if they did, would that connection be enough to lead them to him?

  He closed his eyes, forced himself to think. The soft chatter in the waiting room outside his office became a cacophony of noise, deafening, accusatory, infuriating. He shut it out, remembering the call a moment ago. The cold, businesslike tone. The utter confidence in the voice.

  I’ll expect payment in the next twenty-four hours.

  Payment. He seized on the word, clung to it. Payment. He had paid a heavy price for this particular service, on the understanding that discretion would be assured. Of course, a certain level of attention was understandable, but even if the killings were linked, there was no way to trace it back to him. And even if someone did manage to make a link, they would connect the murders with a ghost.

  The man he had been twenty-five years ago was not the man now sitting at an office desk, with a roomful of people waiting for his advice and counsel. He had aged, matured, changed – metaphorically and literally. His old self had been brash, impulsive, even idealistic. The man he was now was governed by reason, intellect and a survival instinct so honed by twenty-five years of lies that it bordered on predatory.

  He would survive. He always had. He always would.

  He looked up at the TV, felt the panic recede as he slipped back into the role he had played for the last three decades. He considered for moment, then smiled. The thought that had made him smile surpri
sed him. The fact that the smile was genuine surprised him even more.

  Decision made, he stood, back straight, shoulders square. He flicked on the intercom, felt a slight tightening in his throat as he modulated his voice to mute the harsh consonants and extended vowels that would give away his true heritage.

  ‘Margaret, send Mr Pritchard in, would you? And, when you have a moment, get the chief constable on the line, will you? I think it’s about time he and I had a little chat about what’s going on up the road.’

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘So, do you mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?’ Gina had leapt on Donna the moment she had walked through Valley’s doors, as though she had been lying in wait. Her face was pale, hectic blotches of colour clawing up her neck and across her chest like angry footprints. Her lips were drawn into a thin, bloodless line, and there was a chill in her eyes Donna had never seen before.

  She had always wondered what it would take to get under Gina’s skin. She had seen her take on-air meltdowns, equipment failures and the near-constant stream of trouble Matt Evans served up with a cool acceptance that bordered on the mechanical. But this was different. Was it, Donna wondered, that she’d scooped them? Or was it more personal than that? Gina was head producer and director of programming. The station was her baby. Did she feel betrayed by what Donna had done?

  She reached her desk, stripping off her jacket and hanging it over the back of her chair, acutely aware of Gina standing just a little too closely behind her.

  ‘Well?’ she asked again. ‘What the hell is going on, Donna?’

  Donna turned, angry words leaping into her throat. ‘I was doing my job,’ she said. ‘In case you’d forgotten, I’m only on a freelance contract here, as the bastards at MediaSound are too cheap to make me a staffer and pay for my holidays. My contract stipulates I can undertake work that doesn’t “clash with or undercut” what I do here. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, that was a TV broadcast I did earlier, not radio. So there was no conflict. Okay?’

  There was a moment of stunned silence, everyone in the office trying to look as if they weren’t interested and failing miserably. Donna felt her cheeks burn, saw something flit across Gina’s gaze.

  ‘Even so, that was a pretty shitty thing to do, Donna,’ she said. ‘You could at least have called me, let me know what was happening. Christ’s sake, the bollocking I got from Marcus . . .’

  Marcus Hamilton. A career cockroach who had risen to be regional director of MediaSound, thanks to his unerring ability to know which arse to lick at just the right moment. Shit. ‘He didn’t say anything about . . .’

  A small smile flashed across Gina’s face, a fast-moving front of cruel humour, and then it was gone. ‘No, you’re safe. He didn’t like your work for Sky but, as he says, you’ve attached yourself to the story now. And it looks good for him if he can say one of his freelancers is working a national story for TV broadcast as well.’

  Donna let out the breath she had been holding, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment flooding through her. She needed the shifts here, especially at the moment. But still . . . ‘Look, Gina, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Really, I am. It just all happened at once. I followed Ford to the university, a friend at Sky gave me a call asking if I could stand up a line for her, and the next thing, I’m being interviewed on the phone. Sorry, you know how these things go.’

  If Gina saw through the lie, she gave no hint of it. And Donna had bent the truth only a little. The fact was that, after setting Gavin his mission to get photographs, Donna had phoned Fiona Clarke and told her she could give her an on-the-scene report about the breaking news from Stirling University. Maybe with pictures. Clarke had jumped at the chance and made the arrangements. She had been delighted with the results. So much so that she was sending a TV crew down to meet Donna at the press conference due to be held at Randolphfield in the next hour.

  Gina adjusted her glasses, as though they were suddenly too heavy for her delicate nose. She took a deep breath, blew it out. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But at least let me know next time. And get me something good from the press conference for the six o’clock bulletin. We could use something to brighten up a thoroughly crap day.’

  ‘Why? What’s up?’

  ‘Guess,’ Gina said, the weary resignation in her voice leaving only one possible answer.

  Matt Evans. Why MediaSound had decided to give him a chance after the disaster he’d left behind in Edinburgh was beyond Donna, but then, as her dad would say, shit always floats to the top. ‘What’s he done this time?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing. Literally nothing,’ Donna said. ‘He was meant to be at conference at three o’clock to go through the show and tonight’s guests. Didn’t turn up. And the smug git has his phone switched off, so there’s no way of telling if he’s even going to be in for the show tonight. Becky’s agreed to cover if he doesn’t appear, but still . . .’

  Donna nodded. It was typical Matt Evans. Sloppy, unprofessional and totally selfish. Odds were he would arrive two minutes before the show was due to go on-air, give some crap about partying the night away with some idiot he’d convinced to spend the night with him, then breeze into the studio and nail a four-hour show. There was no doubt he was a wanker, but what really rubbed Donna up the wrong way was that he was a talented one.

  And he knew it.

  ‘I’ll get you a good OB from the press conference, promise,’ she said. ‘Actually, I need to talk to you about that, but can you give me five minutes to catch up with my emails, make sure I’m not missing anything?’

  ‘Okay,’ Gina said. ‘I’m going to get a coffee, then I’ll see you in my office. Five minutes. No longer.’

  Donna pushed down the impatience that frothed in her mouth like champagne. The story was live, she had an in with Sky and finally, finally, it looked like things were going her way. She didn’t have time for this.

  Gina stalked away and Donna logged in to her computer, watching as the screen went blue and her name appeared above a spinning circle as it booted up. She was willing it to go faster when her mobile rang. She fished it out of her pocket, saw a number she didn’t recognize.

  She hit answer and lifted it to her ear. Her world imploded as the voice at the other end said, ‘Donna? Donna, don’t hang up. It’s Mark. We really need to talk.’

  CHAPTER 21

  It was like driving to a familiar destination and arriving with no memory of the journey. Connor couldn’t recall heading for his bedroom, springing open the panel beneath his bed to reveal the safe that was set in concrete beneath the floorboards. He had no memory of opening it and reaching into the darkness for what was there, waiting for him.

  Yet now he sat in front of the TV, watching the news reports from outside the uni, the Glock 17 he had not held in more than a year clenched in his hand. He looked down, at once horrified and comforted by the gun’s presence, the solid, undeniable weight of it in his hand. He turned it slowly, letting the light play across the glossy black barrel. It was pristine, a year in the darkness doing nothing to dull its lustre.

  He considered, his eyes darting between the gun and the television. Now that the initial shock had abated, doubt was creeping into his mind. Could it be a coincidence? After all, it was a popular book. Could he be wrong?

  He snatched for the remote, rewinding the live stream of coverage to Donna’s report. His hand tightened on the Glock as the still images of the crime scene flitted across the screen. He paused it when it came to the last image, felt the reptilian part of his mind hiss when he saw the book lying among the debris. He studied it, felt the first trickle of relief when he realized it wasn’t the same edition as the one that had been delivered to their flat in Belfast.

  The book that had ruined his life.

  Connor had never meant to become a police officer, especially not in Northern Ireland. It had, he told himself, just been one of those things. He’d gone to Belfast to study at Queens University, partly because he wanted to be cl
ose to his grandfather, who ran a garage half an hour away in Newtownards, and partly because he wanted to get away from the constant low-level disapproval of his father.

  From the moment Connor was born, Jack Fraser had never wavered in his conviction that his son would follow in his footsteps and become a doctor. But despite this conviction, and his constant attempts to mould Connor in his own image with tales of his life in medicine (‘It even gave me a wife, son – that was how I met your mother’) and even downright blackmail, it became apparent that he had failed.

  Connor had thought his decision to study psychology would placate his father – he could still become a doctor. Instead, it widened the schism between them, Jack Fraser drunkenly dismissing his son’s choice as ‘the easy way out for a kid with a weak stomach and a weaker work ethic’.

  A month after he left school, Connor moved to Belfast, setting himself up in a small flat a short walk from the main university campus, in an area of town called the Holylands. It had gained the name thanks to the divine intervention of a devout developer who had named the streets Damascus, Jerusalem, Cairo, Palestine and Carmel. He arrived in Belfast by ferry, taking his worn-down but much-loved Ford Focus with him so he could drive down to Newtownards and see his grandfather at the weekends.

  Life fell into a soothing rhythm for Connor, studying during the week, nights out with other students at Lavery’s, the Bot – or any other place that served cheap beer – then drive east at the weekend. Jimmy O’Brien was glad of the company. A stroke had taken his wife when Connor was only twelve. At the funeral, Connor remembered his mother beseeching Jimmy to come back to Scotland to live with them and ‘see Connor grow up’. It was an offer she continued to make over the years, and Jimmy always declined. He had his garage, the pub and ‘the lads’. What would he do if he moved away from the town where he had built his life with Grace McAteer? Who would tend her garden? Who would visit her grave?