No Man's Land Read online

  It was on these weekend trips that Connor began the heavy lifting that would sculpt him into the image of his grandfather. Jimmy O’Brien had been an amateur bodybuilder in his time, channelling his fury at the Troubles into the iron instead of the pipe bomb. In an outhouse in the corner of the garage, past where the husks of scrapped cars sat piled like giant Jenga pieces, Jimmy had amassed a collection of weights and machines. When the garage was closed he would take Connor there and train him in the ‘bang and clang’, always with a Bushmills sloshing in an overfull glass. Over the course of his first year in Northern Ireland, Connor bucked the first-year student trend of losing weight and put on just over a stone and a half, most of it muscle.

  And then, just at the point when women were starting to pay attention to the body he had built in his grandfather’s garage and the university gym, he met Karen. It was her voice that first drew her to his attention: her clipped Edinburgh accent shrieked to him across the hushed calm of the McClay Library. He didn’t feel homesick, but there was something about her tone that stirred a hollow wistfulness in him, as though she had reminded him of something he hadn’t known he was missing.

  He struck up a conversation with a corny joke: he’d come all the way to Belfast, he said, to meet the prettiest girl in Scotland. He had felt himself cringe even as he spoke, had known he’d blown his chance with her at that moment. But then she had smiled, and somehow he had known it would be okay.

  And it was. For five years. He’d got to know Karen MacKay, who had come to Belfast to study English with the aim of being a teacher. They dated casually at first, then more seriously. By their final year, they were living together in Connor’s flat, making the trip down to see Jimmy every weekend for Sunday lunch.

  It was comfortable. Routine. Which was why they started planning to stay in Belfast. Karen would do her teaching diploma then find a position – as with everywhere else, Northern Ireland was desperate for teachers. Connor was considering getting a job with the NHS. But then, one night, the decision was made for him.

  He was in the Apartment, a bar on Donegal Square that looked out onto the Baroque splendour of Belfast City Hall. The main bar was on the first floor, its floor-to-ceiling windows giving impressive views of the building, which was bathed with floodlights like a model on a catwalk. He was idly sipping on a pint and watching the square below, waiting for Karen to finish her shift at a restaurant nearby, when a sudden commotion drew his attention. Down on the street, a young, straggly-looking man sprinted diagonally across the road, narrowly missing a bus that was just pulling into the stop. He was running from two police officers who were sprinting after him, moving quickly despite the bulk of their stab vests and the weight of their belts. Connor heard them cry out for the man to stop, the shouts sending those on the streets below scattering and drawing other customers in the bar to the windows. The man – he was young, Connor saw, little more than a child – stopped, spun around with his hands on his head, a look of bewildered panic and utter hopelessness on his face. Even from thirty feet away, Connor could see the kid was seriously malnourished, with the pale, greying skin and nervous tics of an addict.

  The officers were on him in a second, reaching out, grabbing, seizing. They spun him around roughly, crowding in on him. The panic gave way to terror on the kid’s face and tears fell. Still the police shouted, intimidating and overpowering him. One raised his radio from his shoulder to his mouth, spoke into it. Cuffed now, the kid was frogmarched away to the half-hearted cheers of the crowd outside and murmurs of approval from those inside the bar. Connor watched him go, a police van pulling up at the other side of the square. The kid’s head darted from officer to officer, and in his mind, Connor could hear his pleas.

  He had heard them before, just as he had seen the look of pleading desperation, the day he had turned on Gordon Jeffrey.

  Connor watched the police van pull away. He drained his pint, then went looking for Karen. At that moment he knew, on some level beyond reasoned thought, that he would join the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Not to arrest terrified kids in the way he had seen those officers operate, but to do it better.

  For himself. And Gordon Jeffrey.

  Despite her initial misgivings, Karen eventually agreed with his decision. With his natural physical presence and years of study he excelled at the training and became a probationary constable six months after he had graduated. Karen got a job teaching in Dunmurry and they moved into a flat in St George’s Harbour, overlooking the Lagan.

  And then came that night. And the book that had destroyed their life.

  Connor sighed, pulled himself out of the memory. The news channel had moved on to another story, this time about the murder of a country rather than a single person. He weighed the gun in his hand. It could be a coincidence . . . But he had to know. For himself. And for Karen.

  He placed the gun on the coffee-table and picked up his phone. Called the number from memory.

  ‘Hello?’

  Connor felt his breath catch in his chest as the voice from his past dragged him back to Belfast. His eyes settled on the gun.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’ Impatient now.

  ‘Simon? Si, it’s Connor Fraser . . . Yeah, I know, the ghost who walks. Listen, I’m after a favour. Need a wee check on Jonny Hughes. He on anyone’s radar these days?’

  There was a long exhalation of breath down the phone as DS Simon McCartney collected his thoughts. ‘Christ, Connor, I would have thought you’d heard,’ he said.

  ‘Heard what?’ Connor asked, his free hand reaching for the gun.

  ‘Well, it’s just that . . .’ A sharp crack in the background drowned Simon’s voice, followed by the sound of him swearing. ‘Sorry, Connor, I’m down at Corporation Square. There’s a power of building going on here.’

  Connor knew the area. Not far from the Cathedral Quarter, heading down to the harbour and the Lagan. It was the latest part of Belfast to benefit from the investment that had come with the end of the Troubles; hotels, offices and apartment blocks springing up like blossoming flowers. But the development was looking increasingly fragile, the hard frost of Brexit threatening to kill it off as the EU pulled the plug on the money that was flowing into the town.

  ‘No problem,’ Connor said, dragging himself back to the present. ‘What were you saying about Hughes?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, there’s nothing to tell. He’s gone. Three months ago. Got hit by a car on the Shankill, just outside the leisure centre. Whatever you wanted with the Librarian, it’s a bit late now, Connor.’

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Oh, come on, Donna, not again, for fuck’s sake.’

  Donna smiled at Danny’s response to her call. He hadn’t answered the first time she’d rung, probably enjoying the lie he had told himself that the last tip he’d given her had made them even.

  She’d crushed that dream by texting him a picture of the cabinet secretary he’d blackmailed and a simple message: No problem, Danny. If the story goes dry, I can always offer this one as a splash. He had called less than two minutes later, his voice a whining blend of annoyance, desperation and anger.

  ‘Come on, Danny,’ she said, wincing as the line flared with static. He had obviously made the call outside to protect his privacy. ‘The press conference is starting in less than an hour, and I need something to give me the edge. Anything.’

  ‘Donna, I’ve given you everything I can. Ford may look like a creepy uncle, but he’s no idiot. He’s been watching me, I’m sure of it. If he links me to any of the stuff you’ve got . . . Christ, the chief constable’s pissed off as it is with the stunt you pulled at the uni. If I give you any more . . .’

  Donna’s face tightened, her good humour at Danny’s discomfort fading. She knew all about the chief constable’s anger, and the complaint he had made to Sky. Fiona had called her less than twenty minutes ago, being very specific that their arrangement was freelance only: she could only take the heat from above if Donna kept producing res
ults. Translation: get me another scoop or we drop you.

  ‘Danny, there’s got to be something,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t have to be big. Just something I can hook him with. Have they identified the victim yet? Has cause of death been established? Have they categorically linked this to the murder in town yesterday?’

  Danny barked a humourless laugh. ‘What do you think?’ he said. Refocusing, the arrogance seeping back into his voice. ‘Two violent murders in two days? Of course they’re looking at possible connections. But there’s been no formal connection made. As far as I’m aware they’ve yet to identify the victim, and cause of death has yet to be established. They might have more to say on that at the press conference – I’ve not seen the final release yet.’

  Donna bit her lip. She needed more. ‘Nothing else?’ she asked. ‘Nothing odd found at the scene? What about that bag I saw in one of the shots? Nothing there to identify the victim?’

  A pause on the line, another wave of static as the wind picked up wherever Danny was. The silence told her two things. There was something, and Danny was weighing up how much trouble he would be in if he leaked it to her. She felt an electric rush of excitement, found herself holding her breath.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, after what felt like an eternity to Donna. ‘There is one thing. But this is it, Donna. I’m no use to you if Ford catches on to me, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Donna said, the lie coming with less effort than it took to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  ‘Right,’ Danny said, as though reaching some agreement with himself. ‘There was one odd thing. There was no purse or other ID on the victim, yet the killer left behind a bag containing a journal and a paperback book. The journal looks like nothing more than random notes on local-government meetings and briefings, which supports the theory that the victim was a guest at the hotel. A council policy forum was held in one of the conference suites yesterday.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Donna said. ‘“Purse”, not “wallet”. So the victim is female.’

  Danny cursed. ‘Yes,’ he said, voice brittle now. ‘But that’s the problem. None of the conference delegates has been reported missing, and the hotel doesn’t have any guest unaccounted for that matches her description.’

  Donna jotted notes, keeping her eyes off the Post-it note stuck to her monitor. ‘Anything else? What about the book? Was that something to do with the conference as well?’

  ‘Actually, no, it was just a paperback novel. Stephen King’s Misery. Read it?’

  ‘Yeah, long time ago,’ Donna said, vaguely remembering the story of a writer held hostage by his number-one fan and forced to write a novel. Not her type of thing and, besides, she had enough real-life nightmares to deal with. The Post-it note was testament to that.

  She forced herself to focus on the job in hand. ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘Nope,’ Danny said, just a little too quickly. ‘There was a handwritten dedication in the inside cover. Just looks like a note in a gift – doesn’t give any definitive indication of who wrote it or who owned the book.’

  ‘Oh?’ Donna said. ‘What did it say?’

  Danny read out the dedication, Donna scribbling it down. She read it back. Considered it. Nothing important.

  ‘. . . all I’ve got, Donna.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I said that’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I can’t give you any more. If I do, Ford will be on to me in a second.’

  So there was more, she thought. Interesting. ‘Thanks for that, Danny,’ she said. ‘I’ll maybe give you a buzz after the press conference, tidy up a few things, okay?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  She laughed, then hung up, looking at the page of notes she had just scribbled down. Female victim. Probably at a conference being held at the hotel. Fan of horror novels. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  She felt her eyes drawn back to the Post-it. ‘Portcullis, after press conference,’ it read.

  She shook her head, anger gnawing at her like toothache. She should have hung up on Mark the moment she’d heard his voice. Instead, she’d listened to his easy chat and, incredibly, found herself agreeing to meet him at the pub just down the road from the castle after the press conference was done.

  Same old Mark. He’d lost none of his persuasive charm, the ability to make her say yes when she was determined to say no. But who was worse – him for calling after all this time or her for falling for it? She reached for the note, swiped it angrily from the screen and tossed it into the bin. She could deal with his crap later. For now, she had a press conference to prepare for, and a news editor to impress. She was close now, so close, to proving them all wrong. And no one, not Danny, Ford or even Mark, would stop her.

  CHAPTER 23

  After wrapping up his call to Simon with promises to keep in touch, and the assurance he would be welcome in Stirling at any time, Connor took the gun back to the bedroom. He was about to put it away when he paused. He reached into the safe, found the kit and set about stripping and cleaning the gun, the act second nature to him, the ordered routine soothing, the clicks as he dumped the magazine, cleared the chamber and pulled the gun apart like the ticks of a clock in the silence of the flat.

  And as he worked, he remembered . . .

  He was three years into the job, a newly minted constable. He had been teamed with Sergeant Simon McCartney, who was three years older than Connor and acting as his mentor. It hadn’t taken long for a friendship to develop, Connor appreciating Simon’s dark sense of humour, Simon picking Connor’s brains on the best training programmes in the gym.

  ‘Sure you’re like the Hulk,’ he had told Connor once. ‘Just need to slap a bit of green paint on you and a pair of purple pants and you’d be all set. Not sure what your da’ would think of that right enough, but fuck him.’

  Connor had sneered. His father had been good enough to attend his graduation ceremony, had even been civil to Karen. He had smiled at all the right moments, posed for photographs, shaken hands. But Connor saw the glances he’d sneaked at his son when he thought he wasn’t looking. There was no pride, only a hollow disappointment that Connor felt echoed the loss he tried not to feel. That day he’d known he had lost any chance of reconciling with his father, that they would be strangers for the rest of their days. Time grew a callus of indifference over the wound but still, Connor would sometimes think of that day, of the look on his father’s face, and wonder what it was he saw when he looked at his son.

  The night had started simply enough, a standard cruise around the Greater Shankill area in North Belfast; a drive up the Shankill, then along Ballygomartin Road, past Woodvale Park, then a circuit of the Glencairn estate before looping back.

  They’d stopped at the Tesco next to the park to grab a couple of cans of cola, Connor marvelling at the parents and children who wandered the aisles in pyjamas and dressing-gowns. Had they got ready for bed, then suddenly remembered they needed milk? Or had they been in their nightwear all day? He was paying when the call came in: reports of a domestic disturbance on Glencairn Street, a row of close-clustered terraced houses just across from Tesco. Connor exchanged a glance with Simon as they headed to the car, their shared concern passing between them unsaid. This was a tight-knit community and it was practically unheard of for someone to call the police to something that was happening behind closed doors.

  Minutes later, they pulled up outside the house. It was just like any of the others on the street, if more run down – fading white paint peeling from pebbledashed walls, a low wall and rusting gate barricading it from the street. Simon paused as they approached the house, eyes lingering on the immaculate Subaru Impreza that was sitting half on the pavement.

  ‘Ah, shite, I know that car,’ he said, jutting his jaw towards the front door. ‘I know who lives here. Fuck.’

  ‘Who?’ Connor asked, the first sparks of adrenalin making his skin itch. He was suddenly very aware of the weight of his stab vest, and the equipment belt that hung
around his waist. He had yet to draw his gun from its holster on the job, but would tonight be the night?

  ‘Jonny Hughes,’ Simon said, nodding. He saw Connor’s confused look and sighed. ‘Low-level drug-dealer. Got some pull with the UDA as his uncle was a commander during the Troubles. Thinks of himself as a bit of a—’

  He was cut off by a deep voice barking from the house. ‘Catch yerself on, woman!’ a man roared. ‘Away and fuck I wasnae doin’ anything, just helping with—’

  Something heavy crashed to the floor in the house, followed by raised voices. Simon and Connor exchanged glances and rushed up the path. Connor stood to the side as Simon took point, hammering on the front door.

  ‘Police!’ he shouted. Connor darted a glance up the street, his eye caught by the ripple of blinds and curtains being pulled aside. He felt a flutter of unease in his gut. Glencairn was a known Loyalist area of town, proud of patrolling and policing its own. The official police wouldn’t be welcome. And they knew how to deal with unwelcome guests.

  ‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance here. Open the door, please.’

  A moment of unnatural silence, punctuated by curses and the sound of fast footfalls. Simon raised his hand to hammer at the door again, but before he could there was the jingling clunk of a lock being released and a chain being slid aside. The door swung open to reveal an unremarkable-looking man in a Rangers T-shirt, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat beading across his forehead. An expensive pair of glasses perched on a nose that had clearly been broken at least once. He adjusted them with large, blunt fingers and peered out of the house.

  ‘Evening, officers,’ he said, his voice casual, his eyes not. ‘How can I help?’

  Simon took the lead. ‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance at this address, sir, and we just heard raised voices, then what sounded like something falling over. Everything all right here?’

  ‘Ah, yeah, sorry about that,’ Hughes said, eyes dark and hard as eight balls behind his glasses. ‘The wife and I were movin’ me bookshelf, managed to drop the bloody thing. I may have lost the rag a bit, shouted and the like. Sorry.’