She looked at him as though for the first time. He’d been intentionally vague when they’d spoken about his work in the past, saying only that he worked in security, letting her jump to the conclusion that he was a doorman of some sort.
‘I’m not judging, Jen,’ he said, when it was clear she was still processing what he had said. ‘Jealous ex, stalker, over-protective dad, I don’t know. And I don’t really care. As long as you’re okay. And I’m saying that if you need it I can help.’
She took a slug of her drink, eyes reddening either from the alcohol or whatever she was feeling. ‘Good guess,’ she said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Connor. See . . .’ she blew air ‘. . . it’s my dad. He does, ah, well, a fair bit of business across the Central Belt, and he gets a wee bit protective at times. He’s back in Edinburgh, but he likes to have one of his employees keep an eye on me, just in case.’
Connor made a mental note to check out Jennifer MacKenzie’s father as he ran what she had told him through his mind. It made sense, and it explained why the driver hadn’t followed them into the pub: he’d seen Jen with a large-built man, in a public area, heading for a pub. No doubt reported it, probably called it a night. ‘So it’s not a problem?’ he asked.
‘It’s a fucking pain in the arse,’ she said, her words hard with anger and resentment. ‘I know Dad means well, but I’m sick of seeing a car sitting outside the gym whenever I’m working a nightshift. I mean, Paulie – Dad’s guy – is nice enough, but it’s like a slap in the face, isn’t it? Does he think I can’t look after myself?’
Connor nodded. Wondered again about her father, what type of man would go to such lengths to protect his daughter – and from what.
He considered his glass, looked around the pub. It was dying. And he still had that report to write. He downed his whisky, caught a chunk of ice between his wisdom teeth and began to worry at it. A vague alarm was sounding in the back of his mind: there were more questions he should ask her. But he was tired, the workout starting to bite at his muscles. ‘So if it’s not that, what’s this favour you wanted to ask me?’
She looked away, suddenly shy, a mischievous smile on her lips. She followed him in downing her drink, then held his gaze, flashing him those amazing teeth as she smiled. ‘How do you fancy a tour of my place?’ she said.
CHAPTER 10
Matt Evans took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. He was locked in a toilet cubicle, the sharp sting of bleach unable to hide the smell of stale shit that hung in the air. He concentrated on keeping his hands steady as, with his credit card, he chopped at a line of fine white powder on top of the cistern. He separated the mound into four white lines about six centimetres long, then stuffed the foil wrap back into his pocket.
On your marks.
He bent his head to the powder, flushed the toilet, then snorted up the first two lines. There was a brief, bright flash of pain, then his nose went numb as the powder headed for his brain. A moment later the front of his head went gloriously numb. Somewhere, he could hear an engine revving.
He dabbed quickly at his nose, waiting for the cistern to refill. Already, he could feel the coke kicking in, giving his thought synapses the boost they would need for the night ahead. His gums felt dry and bitty, as though he had just rubbed a towel over them, but that wasn’t a problem: he had something to deal with that.
Cistern full, he flushed again and snorted up the final two lines of coke.
He paused for a moment, the euphoric rush forcing him to his knees, then stood up and dusted himself down. He left the cubicle and went to the washbasins to check his reflection. Mousy dark hair beating a hasty retreat from his forehead, leaving an exposed patch of skull no amount of clever combing or hair-gel contortions would ever conceal. Blue eyes that were bloodshot and bleary, set back in dark, hollow sockets that mapped out years of long nights. His beard, or the scraggly, irregular growth on his face that betrayed he was too lazy to shave, was flecked here and there with patches of grey.
‘Getting old, Matty,’ he whispered to himself. He ran a hand through his hair, plastered on his best shit-eating grin and headed for the door. Already the coke was coursing through him, making him excitable and nervous, turning everything up a notch.
Show time.
He bustled into the studio, ignoring the cold stare of disgust Gina shot at him from the production suite as he settled into his chair. He pulled on his earphones, adjusted the mic and tried to get comfortable. His heart was racing now, sending daggers of ice shooting through his veins. He took a deep breath, felt something catch in his nose and dabbed at it hurriedly with a tissue.
‘For God’s sake, Matt.’ Gina’s voice boomed through his headphones, clipped and clinical, chilled with contempt. ‘You’ve got two minutes to air. You ready for this?’
He looked up and through the window into the production office. She sat there behind the desk, imperious as a queen. Back ramrod straight, chest thrust forward, long hair cascading over her shoulders and glistening like burnished bronze in the overhead lights. Matt felt a stab of rage. Who the fuck did this stuck-up little bitch think she was? He hit the button that activated the mic, putting him through to her. When he spoke, his voice was a low, soothing purr. It was the voice that had saved his career, the voice that would fill the airwaves ‘from Stirling to California’ in the hours ahead. Matt liked the line, even if the California in question wasn’t the land of palm trees and movie stars but, rather, a small former pit village in the hills near Avonbridge. The voice that would shake the whole country, if he didn’t get the answer he wanted soon.
‘Sorry, Gina, got a little tied up in the toilet.’ He leant back and patted his ample stomach for effect. ‘All good now and ready for the night. What’s first?’
Gina exhaled noisily, the sound echoing in his ears as the mic amplified it. After a moment, she started to run through the schedule for the show, the first segment, the adverts, any new sponsors. Matt tuned her out, the words meaningless static as he watched her and nodded, all the time wondering what it would be like to grab her by the throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze . . .
His four-hour shift, laughingly called the Midnight Hour by the marketing bods at Valley FM, was about to begin. Matt had his own name for it: the Dead Zone.
What he didn’t know then was how accurate the nickname was about to become.
CHAPTER 11
Ford was back at his desk at seven the next morning, too many thoughts and too little sleep conspiring to give him a snarling headache. Randolphfield, a brutalist concrete office block with dull grey walls and too-small windows, was quiet at that time of the morning, the incident room yet to fill with officers and the chaotic bustle that a murder inquiry always generated.
Tennant had written up his report and emailed it through late last night and, as promised, the tattoo received nothing but a cursory mention as a potentially identifying mark. Ford stared at the image on the screen, the harsh flare of the pathologist’s camera bleaching the greying skin a waxy white colour, giving the bruising around the tattoo a sickening glare that did nothing to calm his stomach.
The moment he reported his suspicions, it would create a chain reaction. With the current uncertainty in Northern Ireland and sporadic terrorist activity across the UK, law-enforcement agencies were on high alert. And news that a man’s murder had all the hallmarks of a paramilitary-style punishment beating, and that the victim had had a Loyalist tattoo on his chest, would do nothing to dampen those fears.
The thought of the case being taken out of his hands, passed to the Specialist Crime Division, or possibly even MI5, gnawed at him. He saw that head every time he closed his eyes, heard the singsong squeal in his ears the moment he let down his guard. Who could inflict that level of brutality on another human being? Ford was no stranger to violence, but this was something new. Almost like a malignant leap forward in the evolution of evil. Not surprising, perhaps, in the age of tweeting madmen and bigot
ry packaged as patriotism, but still Ford had to know. Had to look whoever had done this in the eye.
The blood and DNA samples had been sent for cross-matching to see if they corresponded to someone they had on the database, and the description they had managed to cobble together by looking beyond the victim’s horrific injuries was being cross-checked with missing persons, but still the waiting maddened him.
He tried to distract himself by sinking into the mire of paperwork and bureaucracy that was the hallmark of any major investigation. He filed overtime requests – which would no doubt be denied – made sure the press office had everything they needed, wrote a brief for the chief constable, updated the case log, assigned duties for the day . . . It just never seemed to end. He had been told, along with every other police officer in Scotland, that the merger of the eight forces into one would make everyone’s jobs easier as the single force created ‘synergies and efficiencies’.
All it created for Ford was a major fucking headache.
He leant back, away from the screen, blinked, then stood stiffly and walked across the room. The blow-up had been pinned to one of the whiteboards that lined the far wall, a silent scream with its own gravitational pull that seemed to suck all the attention in the room towards it. He wondered again about the wisdom of pinning the picture up where everyone could see it: the head on the spike, ruined eyes glaring out at them, challenging them to find whoever had done it. Ford knew a couple of the officers thought it was going too far. Even for those accustomed to violence and death, it was unsettling. But he wanted, needed, it to be there. A reminder of what they were facing, of the madness that was, even now, out there somewhere.
The thought that had haunted him last night rose in his mind. Was this an isolated killing or the start of something more? The dumping and staging of the body at a tourist hotspot in the heart of town without being seen suggested meticulous planning and execution, which was hard to reconcile with the sheer sadism of the killing.
But would that be it? Would they be satisfied with one kill, or would they want – need – more?
He was staring at the picture, lost in the dark labyrinth of his thoughts, when his computer gave a soft chime. He turned and walked back to it, saw he had a new email. His breath caught in his throat as he read the subject line, heart hammering with excitement and trepidation as he opened it. He read the message quickly, then double-clicked on the attachment.
He read greedily. Felt the ramifications squeeze his gut into a bilious ball of tension. He looked away from the screen, back to the picture of the head that glared at him from the other side of the room.
A head he now had a name for.
CHAPTER 12
Donna was sitting on the couch when her parents arrived, Andrew cradled peacefully in one arm, the phone clamped to her ear. She nodded a greeting and saw, from the pinched expression and hard set of her mother’s jaw, that there was going to be trouble.
One problem at a time.
‘Oh, come on, Danny,’ she said, turning her attention back to the call. ‘There must be something you can give me, anything – I’m desperate here.’
At the other end of the line, Danny Brooks gave a long, frustrated sigh. They knew each other from Donna’s time on the Chronicle in Glasgow, had worked as reporters together. After the cuts that had driven Fiona Clarke to Sky, Danny had followed the well-worn path that led from journalism to PR and ended up working for Police Scotland. He saw all the press releases the police sent out. More importantly for Donna, Danny also saw what didn’t make it into the press releases, the details that were deemed too sensitive for public consumption.
And, thanks to Danny’s fondness for working practices that would have made a Murdoch blush, he owed Donna a favour.
‘Look, I gave you everything I could yesterday,’ he said, in a self-pitying whine that made Donna want to grind her teeth. ‘Most I can tell you is it looks like the victim was tortured.’
‘Yeah, but how? Come on, Danny, I need something on this, a line, an angle, to get me ahead. This is important.’
Danny sighed again. She could almost hear the thought stumbling through his head, and bet he was scraping his hand over his shaved scalp. It was why he was so bad at the casinos they’d visited after a late shift: Danny had so many tells he might as well have been broadcasting his intentions via megaphone.
‘All right,’ he said, voice flat with resignation. ‘I’m not sure how much use this is, and then that’s it. We’re even. Okay, Donna?’
Donna agreed, knowing they were nowhere near even. He’d hacked the private messages of a cabinet secretary at Holyrood, and all to expose his grubby little secret of an affair with his counterpart on the opposite benches. Not that Donna really cared that a senior politician had been caught with his pants down, but if the government ever found out that he had not only been hacked but had used public money to keep the journalist quiet . . .
Nah. It was going to take a hell of a lot more favours to settle that debt.
‘Go on, then,’ she said, feeling her mother’s gaze fall on her again.
‘Okay. The victim was definitely tortured. It was fucking obvious from the way the body was found and the state of the poor old bastard who called it in. And he’s known to us. Everyone’s talking about it. They got an ID on the victim. Whoever it is, he’s got previous.’
Donna swallowed the bubble of excitement that was rising in her throat. ‘I take it there’s no way . . .’
‘Not a fucking chance,’ Danny said. ‘Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. But that’s the thing. I don’t know. Whoever he was, they’re keeping his name close to their chests. Need-to-know kind of stuff.’
Donna thought back to the press scrum at Cowane’s yesterday. To the harassed DCI who had given a faltering, uneven statement to the press. Clearly not a big fan of being front and centre. She sympathized but, like her, he’d have to get used to it.
‘Okay, Danny,’ she said. ‘Thanks. Say hi to Jill, will you?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, in a petulant tone that reminded her of how much she disliked him at times. ‘And I mean it, Donna, this is it. You want anything else, go through the Stirling press team.’
‘Danny, we both know that’s not going to happen,’ she said, cutting the call before he could reply.
She put the phone down, her dad taking that as a signal to get out of the room. He murmured an excuse about putting the kettle on and scuttled away. She watched him go, then turned back to Andrew, who was still sleeping contentedly.
‘So what was that about?’ her mum asked, jutting her jaw towards the phone.
Donna returned her level gaze. Her mother had never approved of Donna’s career choices or her life in general. Andrew had built something of a bridge between them, but still the disapproval simmered. ‘Work,’ she said. ‘Following up on the murder I worked on yesterday. It’s a big story, national. If I play it right I could really get something out of this.’
‘Hmm.’ Her mum’s eyebrows arched.
Donna felt a snarl of anger, forced it down. She didn’t want to lose her temper in front of Andrew. And the last thing she needed was her mother storming out in a melodramatic huff. ‘Mum, I really appreciate you taking him today,’ she said, standing and offering Andrew to his gran, who took him willingly. She looked down, eyes softening, arguments melting away.
Donna watched her mother, heard her dad bustling around in the kitchen. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said softly. ‘This means a lot. It’s a big story. If I play it right, it could really open doors for me.’
Irene Blake looked up at her, something Donna couldn’t name flashing in her eyes. ‘That’s all for the good,’ she said. ‘But just remember what comes first. We love taking Andrew, but he needs his mother. Especially since his father is nowhere to be seen. And you chasing stories and trying to restart your career won’t help him.’
Donna took a deep breath, tried to compose herself. She was about to speak when her dad came into the room, car
rying a tray of tea and biscuits like a peace-offering. He looked between his wife and his daughter, reading the tension in the room, nodded, then set the tray on the coffee-table in front of the couch. He flicked Irene a look, an entire conversation passing between them, then gave Donna a smile. ‘You got time for a cuppa before you head off, love?’ he asked.
CHAPTER 13
Matt Evans fell back into himself, jerking into consciousness from the oblivion he had been drowning in. His heart was pounding as his lungs clawed for air. He blinked, trying to focus in the gloom, panic and confusion wrestling for supremacy in his mind as he sifted desperately through the jagged shards of his memory.
What had happened last night? And where was he?
He swallowed, took another deep breath, the smell of stale urine mingling with something nauseatingly sweet that burnt his nostrils. He forced himself to think.
Smell. Something about the smell. Something . . .
His breath stopped, the gloom crowding in on him as the memory formed in his mind, panic arcing through him like electric current. He let out a sniffling whimper as his eyes filled with tears. The smell. The smell of leather and polish. He remembered.
He had come off air at the usual time, skipping out of the post-show production meeting, eager to be free of Gina and her scorn, wanting nothing more than to get home, check the tapes one more time. He had started walking, scrolling through his phone, felt a slight irritation that there were no messages waiting for him. No Want to see you or How about I come over? Not a problem tonight, he needed time alone. He pushed the thought aside, started looking for the number of a taxi company he used. Paused at the junction where the industrial estate ended, laughed when he saw a taxi crawl towards him, its light on.
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