No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  Simon returned Hughes’s cold gaze. ‘You mind if we come in and take a look, sir?’ He moved forward a half-step, forcing Hughes back into the house.

  ‘Well, actually, boys, it’s not a—’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute, sir,’ Connor said, as he stepped onto the centre of the path. He saw Hughes’s gaze dance across him, evaluating. Something told him that, if it was to get physical, Hughes would be a problem. ‘Really, sir, we’ll be in and out,’ he added, trying to focus past the dark excitement that was fizzing through his veins. ‘Best to sort this out now, eh?’

  Hughes hesitated, then dropped his chin to his chest, accepting the inevitable. ‘Come on away in, then,’ he said. ‘But watch out, the place is a fuckin’ mess.’

  They navigated their way along a small hallway, with a steep flight of stairs at the end, and into a cramped living room. As Hughes had said, an upturned bookcase lay on the floor, books spilt around it.

  Connor took a slow look around the room, nodding to the wall opposite where the bookcase had been and a fist-shaped dent in the plasterboard that spread splintering cracks of white across the dark purple paint. ‘What happened there, sir?’ he asked. ‘Surely a book didn’t do that Mr, ah . . .’

  ‘Hughes,’ he said, confirming his identity. ‘Jonny Hughes. It wasn’t a book. Like I said, I lost my rag a bit and I, ah . . .’

  Simon made a point of looking around the room. ‘You mentioned your wife, sir. Where is she?’

  Hughes’s expression darkened. ‘Think she went to make a cup of tea, like,’ he said. ‘Amy! You through there?’

  A door at the far end of the living room opened, and a tall, slender woman in jogging bottoms and a sports top was framed in front of a small, well-lit kitchen. Her eyes darted between the three men, a cold calculation taking place, and she stepped into the room.

  ‘Aw, we didn’t make enough noise to get the police involved, did we? Sorry, boys, my stupid fault, just let the thing slip out of my hand.’

  Connor nodded, studying her. Like Hughes’s, her forehead was beaded with sweat, her breath short and shallow as though she was recovering from heavy exertion. No signs of the two of them having been in a fight but, still, something niggled at Connor, something he had seen but not . . .

  ‘So, you boys need anything else? All just like we said, right?’

  Simon and Connor exchanged a look. The story checked out. Neither of them seemed to be in physical distress, and it was clear no one was going to be making accusations or pressing charges. Nothing more to be done.

  And yet . . .

  ‘There’s no one else here, is there, Mr Hughes?’ Simon asked. ‘Not got a friend in to help you with the redecorating?’

  Hughes twisted his lips into an approximation of a smile. ‘Naw, no one daft enough to help out. But feel free to have a look. Got nothing to hide, me.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Hughes,’ Simon said. ‘Just keep it down, okay? And next time you want to move a bookcase, get some help.’

  ‘Sure, lads, no problem,’ he said as they turned and headed for the door. Connor lingered for a second, his eyes catching on the fist-shaped dent in the wall. Then he left.

  They walked out of the front door, watched as Hughes swung it shut. Got back into the car and studied the house for a moment, the Hugheses’ silhouettes playing against the blinds of the front window.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Domestic, most like,’ Simon replied. ‘You heard what he shouted as we arrived, “I wasnae doin’ anything.” Ten to one she’s caught him at it and hit him where it hurts, in the books.’

  Connor thought back to the books lying piled on the floor. ‘Aye, what’s that all about?’ he asked.

  ‘Jonny thinks of himself as a bit of an intellectual,’ Simon replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘He did a stretch for aggravated assault a while back, caught the reading bug in the prison library. Collects them, for the titles rather than the content, I think. Always carries a book with him, picked up the nickname the Librarian on the way.’

  Connor grunted a laugh. ‘So what do we do now?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Simon said. ‘Looks like just what they said, a domestic that got out of hand. No signs of violence between them. Seems like the wall got it worse from Jonny than she did so we can . . .’

  The wall. The image of the dent flashing across his mind. The size of it. The shape. The way Amy Hughes was standing, left hand clasped across right. ‘He didn’t hit the wall,’ he said, more to himself than Simon. ‘She did. That’s why she was in the kitchen when we arrived. She was sorting her hand out.’

  Simon smiled. ‘Hell hath no fury, eh? Ah, well, we’ll write it up, keep an eye on the place when we’re around. Nothing more we can do for now.’

  They didn’t have to wait long. An hour later, they were heading back down Ballygomartin Road towards the Shankill, Woodvale Park a pool of darkness on their right, when the call came in. Glencairn Street again.

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ Simon hissed, as he hauled the car around and Connor hit the blues and twos. It was nearing the end of their shift, and this meant overtime neither of them would be paid for.

  They pulled up to the house. Amy Hughes was stalking around the Impreza parked outside, keeping it between her and Jonny, who was brandishing a baseball bat. The windscreen had been shattered, the remnants of it twinkling like shards of amber in the sepia of the streetlights.

  Connor was out of the car first, heading for Jonny, ignoring the jeering and whoops of the assembled crowd. This had gone beyond a domestic and curtain-twitching. It had moved outside, making it a spectator sport, and the neighbours had front-row seats. He tried not to think of who might be in that crowd, what they might be carrying. The Troubles were officially over, but animosity towards the police hadn’t dissipated. It was in the blood, no matter which side of the divide you were on. And, right now, he and Simon were the perfect target for a half-brick, a petrol bomb or whatever else could be pulled from a backstreet arsenal.

  Back-up was on the way, but Connor knew he needed to end this. Quickly.

  ‘Mr Hughes? Put it down, sir, now,’ he said, reaching for his CS spray as he spoke.

  Hughes looked at him, wild-eyed, nostrils flaring. A crack had spidered its way across the right lens of his glasses, the flesh behind the frame puffy and already turning an ugly purple. Hell hath no fury, right enough.

  Simon looped around to the left, trying to outflank Hughes and keep the crowd back at the same time. More jeers and hoots, a kid trying to spark up a chorus of ‘Fuck the pigs’.

  ‘Mr Hughes,’ Connor said again, raising his voice. Not that it mattered. One look in Hughes’s eyes told him the man wasn’t listening. He wanted blood. And he didn’t look like he much cared whose it was.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch!’ he spat across the car. ‘Look what ye did to ma fuckin’ motor. I’m gonnae—’

  ‘Oh, aye? Gonnae what, Jonny?’ Amy hissed back, cords in her neck straining, fists clenched. ‘Hit me again? That what you do with her? She like that? A bit of slapping around? The rough stuff? Must be something like that, as you’re shite at anything else, ya limp-dick fuck.’

  Laughter exploded from the crowd, petrol to the rage burning in Hughes’s eyes. He surged forward, slipping around the right of the car on the side closest to the wall, too fast for Simon to catch. A roar of approval from the crowd as Amy danced backwards from the bonnet, ready to face him.

  Connor stepped forwards, grabbing her arm. He threw her behind him, fresh laughter and whoops erupting from the crowd as she lost her balance and ended up on her backside. She cried out, more in shock than pain, and Hughes’s eyes darted between her and Connor. For a sliver of a second, Connor felt a surge of vertigo and sickness, the air now heavy with the promise of violence. Then, like a light being snapped off, the feeling was gone, replaced with something far darker and more dangerous.

  Excitement.

  Hughes raised t
he baseball bat above his head, ready to open Connor’s head with it. But Connor was ready, the situation unfolding in his mind in a giddying kaleidoscope of snapshot images. He took a step left, away from the swing, then jabbed his fist into Hughes’s exposed ribs. Not much, just a tap. It was enough to tip his balance and he staggered, bouncing off the low boundary wall of the front garden, skidding across its surface, then hitting the ground. He was on his knees in an instant, teeth bared.

  ‘Fucker,’ he said, his voice as hard as the pavement he crouched on. ‘I am going to end you.’

  Connor took a half-step back, giving Hughes all the space he needed. He rushed forward, the baseball bat forgotten, nothing in him but rage now. Connor heard Simon cry out, ignored it. Stepped forward into Hughes’s path then went low, sweeping his legs out from under him. He landed roughly, chin cracking off the ground as his glasses skittered across the pavement. The crowd roared again: the neighbourhood big man with his UDA connections finally brought low. Connor sprang on him, got a knee on his back and hauled his arms roughly behind him. ‘Jonny Hughes, I am arresting you for—’

  His world exploded into a cacophony of screams that stabbed into his ear. Hot breath on his neck as Amy leapt on him, hissing, clawing, biting. She reached round, her hands curled into claws, scrabbling for Connor’s eyes. ‘Leave him the fuck alone!’ she screamed. ‘If you’ve hurt him—’

  Instinctively, Connor snatched for the hand clawing at his face. Grabbed it and twisted. Heard something pop, then Amy’s scream climbing from fury to agony.

  He shrugged her off and turned his attention back to Jonny, who was thrashing beneath him but unable to move against Connor’s bulk. He finished cuffing him and hauled him to his feet. With his glasses gone, Hughes glared at Connor with a naked, feral hatred. ‘I’m gonnae make your life a fuckin’ horror show, son,’ he whispered. Then he spat into Connor’s face.

  The report was routine, the problem of Connor almost breaking Amy’s wrist countered by the fact that she was assaulting him at the time. Jonny and Amy Hughes were charged with assaulting a police officer and breach of the peace. And that was the end of the matter.

  Or so Connor thought.

  Three weeks later, he came home after a shift, Karen already there, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, the smell of her lasagne drifting from the kitchen, a package on the coffee-table in front of her.

  He set down his kitbag. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That?’ she said, a puzzled look on her face. ‘I don’t know. It was delivered to the school today for me, must be a mistake.’ She handed it to him. ‘Not something I ordered, strange they’d send it to the school though.’

  It was a typical Amazon delivery package, a plain cardboard sleeve around the item inside. He opened it and slid out the book. With it was a printed card, Amazon’s version of a dedication. As he read it, Connor felt the world tip and lurch: ‘I promised you a horror show. Here it is. Hope you like it. L.’

  He swallowed his fury and looked at Karen, who was studying him closely. ‘You okay, Connor?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone pale.’

  He forced a smile, felt numb lips stretch away from his teeth. Hughes. And the obvious message? I know who you are. I know where your girlfriend works. I can get either of you at any time.

  Connor snapped the slide back onto the barrel of the gun, pulled the trigger, then slid it back, resetting the mechanism with a satisfying clunk. He looked at the gun for a moment, memories he didn’t want to face churning to the surface. Of what he had done. What it had cost him. What he had become.

  He packed up his cleaning kit and put it back into the safe, then locked the gun into the darkness with all his other memories of Belfast. It was over. Jonny Hughes, the Librarian, was dead. The book found at the murder scene was a coincidence, nothing more.

  Let the past lie.

  He stood up, tired, the weight of the past draining him. Looked out of the window and decided he was in no mood to tackle his gran’s house today. Headed for the living room to find his phone and call Jen. A day with her would help. He would check her flat as agreed, then suggest a drink. He was still musing on how he would tell her about Paulie as he scrolled to her number, not knowing the point was already moot.

  CHAPTER 24

  They held the press conference at Randolphfield, in a grim basement room that had the reporters complaining about poor lighting, lack of power points and crap sound. Sitting in an anteroom, Ford heard the griping, cut through with Danny’s increasingly strident responses. Served the little shit right. Ford could have had another press officer run the show, but he wanted to make Danny suffer. From the sound of it, he was.

  Ford returned to the notes in front of him, felt the prickle of annoyance again, adding to the headache that was pressing at the back of his eyes. It was a waste of time. He was being wheeled out in front of the press as cannon fodder, nothing more.

  He had already received the call telling him that Special Investigations were taking over the case, and he was to offer his ‘full and total co-operation’. That they were assuming command immediately after the press conference – leaving him to face the journalists with only a chief constable who thought every run-in with the media was an exercise in self-promotion – was a total coincidence.

  Yeah, right.

  He was the sacrificial lamb, the DCI who would stand up and tell the gathering how little progress they had made, which would give the chief the perfect opening to tell reporters he was taking a closer operational role and had called in Special Investigations to drive the case forward. It made Ford seem inept, the chief in control.

  When, he wondered, had policing stopped being about catching criminals and become an exercise in political manoeuvring?

  He thought again of retiring, jacking it in and walking away. Mary would approve. She had made no secret of her concerns about the toll the job was taking on him, the dark moods, the drinking, the sullen periods of silence when he would bottle up everything he had seen, unwilling and unable to burden her with it. He was close to his thirty years anyway, and he was still young enough to do something else.

  But then he thought of Billy Griffin’s head swaying in the breeze. The hellish squeal calling to him, beckoning him to look . . .

  He had to face whoever had done that, look into their eyes, see what resided there, what made such violence and fury possible. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he did.

  The door to the room swung open, Danny stepping inside. ‘Chief is ten minutes away,’ he said, brandishing his mobile. ‘You all set, sir?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ford replied. ‘Tell me, has that reporter arrived? You know, the one who was on Sky, got those pictures from the university?’

  Danny’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes narrowing. Ford smiled at his discomfort. So he was right: the little shite was talking to her. It was obvious, really – a quick look at Danny’s CV, a Google search of Donna Blake’s name showed they’d both worked in Glasgow, on the same paper, at the same time. The calls to a couple of contacts in what had been Pitt Street CID had hardly been necessary, but Ford liked to be thorough.

  If only everything was so obvious.

  Danny paled, fidgeted with his phone. ‘Ah, I’ve not seen her, but I’m sure she’ll be here. Why, sir? Is there something particular you want to discuss with her? Of course I can set up a sit-down with her but . . .’

  Ford raised a hand, silencing him. ‘Nothing like that, Danny,’ he said. ‘After the crap she pulled at the campus, I just want to know she’s there so I can avoid calling her for questions.’

  Danny’s mouth opened, as though he was about to say something. Clearly he thought better of it. ‘I’ll make sure you know where she is, sir,’ he said, his tone resigned.

  ‘Good.’ Ford nodded. ‘Now make sure there’s water on the conference table. The chief is always thirsty at these things and, who knows, I might need a jug to empty over one of the hacks.’

  CHAPTER 25

&nbs
p; The chief constable arrived twenty minutes later, killing any lingering goodwill the press might have had. Ford did his best but he could hear the irritation creep into his voice as he had to find different ways to say the same thing over and over again. Yes, another body had been found. No, we have yet to identify the victim. We have nothing to implicitly connect this murder to the body found at Cowane’s Hospital yesterday, but we are pursuing every avenue of inquiry. Yes, we will keep you regularly updated.

  Beside him, Chief Constable Peter Guthrie sat impassively, a serene Buddha who had been squeezed into a pressed police uniform that, instead of giving him an air of authority, made him look like a wee boy playing dress-up. Guthrie was a new breed of police officer, the type that believe in marketing plans, stakeholder engagement, community feedback and ‘positive reinforcement of our core ideals’. He was a graduate who had been put on the promotion fast-track, skipping ranks and the experience a real police officer needed. With the advent of Police Scotland, he had thrived in the bureaucratic churn that trying to bring eight police forces together under one roof had created, and found himself elevated to the top job after the previous chief had racked up too many controversies, both internal and external, to stay in post. He had become, in the post-reorganization age, that most forbidden entity – a political liability.

  At several points during the press conference, Ford saw Donna Blake straining forward, trying to get in a question. Every time she raised her hand or tried to butt into the conversation, he ignored her. The chief did the same – given that he was using this whole debacle to gain a few Brownie points with his bosses at Holyrood, it was the least he could do. When Guthrie was summing up, looking into the camera with a voice as precise as his uniform creases and a delivery as polished as his epilates, Ford caught Blake’s eye. Her gaze was cold. She looked as if she was biting back a mouthful of expletives.