No Man's Land
Page 1
CONSTABLE
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Constable
Copyright © Neil Broadfoot, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-47212-757-0
Constable
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.littlebrown.co.uk
For Mum and Dad, who’ve been there for me all the way from the scalded pink jotters to here
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
Connor Fraser collapsed against the church wall, rain-slicked granite driving icy needles into his back and shoulders. He focused on the sudden chill, tried to use it to clear his thoughts, calm the white noise of pain and confusion and rage.
Blood pumped over the hand he had clamped across the wound to his leg, hot and slick between his fingers. He took a deep breath, ignored the flash of pain in his chest, exhaled a cloud of steam into the night air.
The voice drifted from the shadows, as warm and cloying as the blood pouring from his leg. ‘You okay, Connor? Watch your step. Last thing we want is you slipping and breaking your neck. Been enough death here recently.’
Connor looked into the darkness opposite, trying not to think of what had been left there only days ago. Knew now it had been a message for him. A message crafted in blood and pain, designed to make his life a horror story.
His attacker slid from the shadows, moving closer. Connor saw muscles tense, the final attack close. The knife rose slowly, flaring orange as it caught the glow from a streetlight overhead.
Connor braced himself against the church wall, tried to draw strength from the ancient stone. ‘Come on, then,’ he hissed, dragging his gaze from the ghost in front of him. ‘I’ve not got all night, and this is getting fucking boring.’
Another smile, almost genuine this time. ‘Mr Take Charge, huh, Connor? I always liked that about you.’ A glance down at the knife. ‘Well, if you insist.’
Connor pushed off the wall as hard as he could as his attacker lunged, using inertia to make up for the weakness in his leg. He surged forward, the fury and pain finally erupting from him in a roar that filled his ears, drowning out even the hammering of his heart.
They collided in a tangle of limbs and fell to the cobbles, writhing. Connor’s leg was engulfed in agony as he jerked the wrong way, the sudden pain forcing another scream from him. He felt small, hard fingers scrabble across his face and twisted away, eyes searching desperately for the knife. He grabbed for it, felt the crazed strength of his attacker behind the blade, inching it closer, closer, to his face.
He took another breath, tasted blood at the back of his throat, and gripped the arms that were quivering with the effort of driving the knife towards his face. He thought about letting go for an instant, the knife digging into the soft flesh under his chin, the blade slicing sideways and down to tear open his windpipe, blood and gristle splattering onto the cobbles. He could let it end with him. Let his blood be the last.
Couldn’t he?
CHAPTER 1
Edinburgh – three days earlier
Run!
The word was a shriek in his mind, an imperative he could not ignore. He charged forward, shrugging off the hands he felt on his shoulders. Ignored the sudden panicked shouts of his name as he crashed through heavy double doors at the back of the High Court and onto the street.
A clatter of feet behind him, a voice shouting: ‘Stephen! Stop! Shit! Tango Alpha to team leader, he’s gone. Repeat, asset is on foot, heading . . .’
He pushed through the throng in front of him, ignoring the indignant shouts, the burning, dazzling flash of cameras and the clamour of questions.
Run!
Stephen lurched across the street, new shoes slithering across the cobbles, aiming for the gate and the News Steps he knew lay beyond. Took them three at a time, each impact on the age-smoothed stone juddering through his body and driving the breath from him.
He looked up, realized he was running straight for the looming stone wall at the bottom of the stairs, where the path twisted to the left, then on down the hill. He skidded through the turn, colliding with a heap of tattered blankets tucked into the corner of the landing, felt something soft yield against his flailing feet.
‘Ah, ya fuck!’ a voice grunted, the blankets rearing up like some kind of threadbare monster. A pale, thin face glared at him, eyes wide with shock, outrage and pain.
Stephen kicked himself free, dived for the next flight of stairs, reached the bottom and picked up speed on the slope that led onto Market Street. Waverley station was only minutes away. He could duck in, pick a train, any train, and just go. Leave it all behind and . . .
A figure appeared at the mouth of the alleyway, all shoulders and back, blocking his path. Stephen’s roar was part shock, part fury. No station for him. No escape. Not now. He tried to slow down, but momentum conspired with the slope to c
onfuse his co-ordination and balance. His feet tangled beneath him, the world tilting as he toppled forward, concrete rushing up to meet him.
A dark blur of motion in front of him, then hands on his chest, stopping him smashing face first into the ground. His stomach gave a cold, oily flip as he was spun around and upright, then slammed into the wall of the alley, breath driven from him in a bark.
‘Easy, Stephen, easy,’ the man said, grip tightening on his lapels as he spoke.
‘Connor, man! Fuck!’ Stephen spat, squirming in the man’s grip. ‘Where the fuck did you come from?’
Connor Fraser gave him a you-know-better smile. ‘Come on, Stephen, really? Obvious which way you’d go. Most of the press packing out the front of the court, only way for you to go was the back door, especially after I showed you the way when I took you up those stairs this morning. It was fifty–fifty you’d make a run for it, but I thought I’d cover the bases, just in case.’
Stephen fought for breath, felt his eyes prickle with heat. Waited a beat, fighting to keep his voice even. ‘Ah, come on, man. Just let me go, okay? My dad’ll blame Robbie, not you. He’s the one I got away from. Just let me go. Tell Dad you couldnae catch me. Please?’
Connor shook his head slowly, eyebrows rising in something like apology as he eased his grip, allowing Stephen to move away from the wall. ‘Sorry, I can’t. You know that. Besides, where would you go? And what would you do next? No, better to go home. Be with your family. You’ve got a dad who only wants to look after you. Let him.’
Stephen glanced over Connor’s shoulder towards the station. He felt a brief tug of regret, and sighed. Where would he go? It wasn’t like he could just fade into the background – he’d been plastered across the headlines for a week now: Star’s Son Key Witness in Murder Trial. With the trial ongoing, the press had refrained from picking apart his life, digging into the corners he didn’t want them looking into. But now that he’d done his part, given evidence that almost guaranteed a conviction, they would be on him. Scrutinizing his life. Wanting him to comment. His dad’s agent had already warned him that the media interest would be intense. Wherever he went, this would follow him. Connor was right: better to face it here.
He took a steadying breath, nodded. Connor studied him for a second longer, then took a step back, letting Stephen move onto the path. But he didn’t let him go: one hand was still clamped around his arm. Just in case.
Stephen let himself be led the short distance to the end of the alleyway, felt no surprise when he saw a black BMW parked at the side of the road, idling. The driver’s window buzzed down, Iain Robbins nodding to Connor as they approached, eyes darting over Stephen.
Connor guided Stephen to the back of the car and opened the door for him to get in.
‘Look, Connor, I . . .’
Connor held up a hand. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I know what it’s like. You did a brave thing today, Stephen. Not everyone would have the balls to stand up and tell the truth the way you did. But you did it. Now you have to deal with the fallout.’
A flash of panic made Stephen’s legs twitch, the thought of running darting through his mind. But then he stopped. Calmed himself. It was done. He couldn’t change that now. Best to pick up the pieces.
He ducked into the car, Connor swinging the door shut behind him.
‘Come on, then, Iain,’ he said. ‘Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.’
* * *
Connor watched the car pull away, heading down Market Street. Waited until it got to the roundabout and turned left, heading for Stockbridge and Stephen’s home. He wondered what John Benson would say to his son when he got there, pushed the thought aside as he clicked open his earpiece channel. ‘Team leader to Tango Alpha, asset secured. Lid full. Going off comms.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, just removed the earpiece and slipped it into his pocket. Then he pulled out his mobile and called Robbie Lindsay’s number.
‘Connor, man, fuck. Sorry, he got away from me. Fast wee fuck, he—’
‘I don’t want to hear excuses, Robbie.’ Connor glanced up the News Steps Stephen had just sprinted down. Kid was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck. ‘You were primary on Stephen. There was no way you should have let him get enough distance between you and him to make a break for it, especially so close to an unsecured exit.’
Robbie mumbled an apology, took a breath. ‘You going to tell Jameson?’
‘Do I have a choice? You let an asset slip out of the pocket in an exposed area. We were only lucky that he followed the path I’d already shown him and had limited options for escape. Imagine what would have happened if he’d managed to get past me and was hit by a car or something.’
Silence fell on the line. Robbie didn’t need to imagine. John Benson was one of the biggest names in Edinburgh, a former fan favourite at Hibs who’d moved into TV punditry and presenting when his footballing career had petered out. Stephen had enjoyed living in the shadow of his father’s success and played the role of spoilt celebrity brat, the usual blend of parties, paparazzi and sex keeping the media interested.
But it had all gone wrong for Stephen one night three months ago when, sharing a noseful of party favours in the toilets of one of Edinburgh’s more exclusive clubs, a hanger-on called Roddy Davis had got into a row with another clubber and, in a rage, produced a knife and slit the man’s throat. Stephen had made a full statement to the police, and was called to be the star witness in the trial, which had generated a full-blown media circus. John Benson had called in Sentinel Securities, the same close-security firm that had looked after him when the partying got a little too hard and the crowds a little too rowdy.
‘Look, I’ll think about it,’ Connor said, focusing again on Robbie. ‘But for fuck’s sake, catch yourself on, okay? This isn’t a game.’
Robbie sighed down the line. ‘Aye. Okay, Connor, sorry.’
‘Right, get on home, then, and get your report to me by Monday.’
‘Aye, thanks, man.’
Connor killed the call, headed for the News Steps. He had seen Stephen collide with someone up there and wanted to check that whoever it had been wasn’t hurt. He was halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew who it would be. ‘Lachlan, how are you?’
‘Connor,’ Lachlan Jameson boomed, voice as clipped and precise as the moustache he insisted on wearing. ‘What news this fine day?’
Connor rolled his eyes. Did he really think ordinary people still talked like that? ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Just wrapped up with Stephen Benson at the High Court. He’s on his way home now. Iain will stand perimeter with Jodie, keep the press at bay.’
‘And what about young Lindsay’s performance?’ Lachlan asked, a hint of impatience creeping down the phone line.
Connor winced. Shit. The old man must have been watching the case on the TV. ‘Let’s just say he needs a little work,’ he replied. ‘Couple more months of training and Robbie should work out nicely.’
‘Is that an offer?’
Connor mouthed a silent curse. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘no way. You asked me to run the close protection and security around Stephen and his family while he gave evidence. Job done. Iain and the team can handle the rest. Besides, I’ve got a long weekend coming up, remember?’
Jameson grumbled his displeasure down the phone. As a former soldier, there was something about ‘time off’ that he just couldn’t understand.
Maybe, Connor thought, if he knew what I’ve got to do, he’d go a little easier.
‘Fine, Connor, fine. Just remember, though, if Robbie’s not an asset, he’s a liability. If he’s not cutting it, we cut him. This is a business, after all.’
Connor bit down on the sigh he felt in his chest. Typical Jameson: officer class, saw the grunts as cannon fodder, disposable. Not if he could help it. ‘You want me to come into the office and write up my report now?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. Just head home, type it up and email it to me by close of play. Besides,
you’ll want to get back to where the action is anyway.’
‘Oh?’ Connor said.
‘Seems there’s been a murder in Stirling, not far from where you stay. Not a bad break for us, keeps the trial further down the news schedule. There isn’t a lot of detail at this stage, but sounds fairly grim. Maybe you should come into work after all – might be quieter than home tonight.’
Despite himself, Connor laughed. ‘Not bloody likely,’ he said. ‘And, besides, murder investigations aren’t my thing any more. Let some other poor sod deal with it.’
‘Better them than us,’ Jameson agreed. ‘Enjoy your time off, Connor.’
Before Connor could reply, the line went dead. Jameson always wanted the last word.
He flipped open the news app on his phone and found the story. It didn’t add much to what Jameson had told him already. Body found up near the castle, police saying the death was being treated as suspicious, with ‘definite lines of enquiry being followed’. Translation: it’s a murder, and we don’t have a fucking clue yet.
The byline of the reporter who had written the story contained her Twitter handle: @donnablake1news. Instinctively, Connor flicked over to his Twitter app, scrolled through her timeline and clicked follow. After all, it never hurt to stay informed.
CHAPTER 2
Stirling
From beyond the police cordon, DCI Malcolm Ford heard the soft purr of tyres on cobbles as a car made its way up St John Street towards Stirling Castle. He locked onto the sound, like a shield against the soft, incessant squealing behind him. It was like a grotesque ear worm, a song he kept hearing in his mind. Insidious, maddening. Irresistible.
Look at me, it whispered. Just turn and look. Instead Ford gazed up into the clear August sky, closing his eyes against the sudden memory of what lay behind him, trying to draw heat from the day to banish the bone-deep chill that forced him to clench his teeth to stop them chattering.
Look at me, the squeal sang behind him, louder this time as the wind picked up. Go on. Just one quick look.
Ford opened his eyes and, making a half-turn, forced himself to focus instead on the scene in front of him. He was on a small lane that ran between the Holy Rude Church and the old bowling green that lay behind the imposing frontage of Cowane’s Hospital, which dated from the seventeenth century and backed onto the town walls. At this time of year, the place should have been bustling with tourists, eagerly snapping pictures as they took in the whitewashed stone and grey slate of the hospital and wandered around the gardens that surrounded the bowling green.