‘Enough, Dad,’ she said. ‘Connor’s going to give the flat the once-over. And now you know he’s a professional. I’ll call you later, okay?’
‘Okay,’ MacKenzie said, his eyes not leaving Connor’s.
The flat was bigger than Connor expected, one wall dominated by floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that led to a small balcony and views across Stirling to the Ochil Hills. The place was clean and tidy, almost Spartan in its appearance, giving the impression that Jen had just moved in. That might explain the reason for his visit.
‘Sorry about Dad,’ she said, as she ushered him to a large leather couch that sat against the wall opposite the sliding doors. ‘He’s always been over-protective. And after what you did to Paulie . . .’ She let the sentence trail off, giving him a look that was half scolding and half encouraging.
‘I’m sorry about that, Jen. He turned up at my place, must have followed me home last night. Guess I rubbed him up the wrong way. But he threw the first punch.’
She dipped her chin to her chest, as though making a decision. ‘Yeah, Paulie always was a bit of a hothead,’ she said. ‘Not surprising that he got into trouble. And, to be honest, it might have done me a favour.’
‘Oh?’ Connor asked. In the pub the night before, she had admitted having her dad’s employee watching her was a pain but, ultimately, she’d learnt to live with it. Was this what she’d wanted? To have Paulie taken out of action?
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Dad didn’t like what you did, but coming from his background, he respects it. Which means he respects you – and your word. So if you have a look around the flat and say it’s okay, he’s likely to believe you and back off a bit.’
She had asked him the night before if he would take a look at the place. At first, Connor had thought it was a pick-up line, a clumsy way to get him into her flat. But he had quickly realized she’d meant it. Which left only one question. No point in being coy about it. ‘And why does your dad want someone to check out your flat?’ he asked.
She fidgeted in the seat, the leather squeaking softly as she moved. She dropped her eyes, embarrassment diverting her gaze. ‘Well,’ she said, hesitant, ‘it’s just that he does a bit of business across the Central Belt, and sometimes he has to work with people who, ah, play a little rough. I only moved into this place three months ago, and Dad’s a bit nervous.’
‘Does he need to be?’ Connor asked. He had checked up on the MacKenzie name when he’d got in last night. Didn’t take long to link it to Duncan MacKenzie of MacKenzie Haulage, a freight company that operated across the Central Belt. A couple of calls to a contact at the Police Scotland call centre at Bilston Glen painted the rest of the picture. With his haulage firm criss-crossing the country, and reaching into Europe, there were rumours that not all of Duncan MacKenzie’s cargo was strictly legal. Nothing had ever been proven, despite the police checking, but the off-the-record consensus was that, if it needed moving, MacKenzie would shift it. For a fee. Drugs, porn, booze, fuel, firearms, food, medical supplies, he didn’t care. The only thing he wouldn’t move, the reports said, was people. But even with that caveat, he would be dealing with those who wouldn’t think twice about using his daughter to settle a grievance. Which raised another question Connor had yet to answer for himself.
What was he doing here?
Jen gave a sudden smile. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I mean, yeah, okay, once, but I doubt anything will now. Dad’s always been overprotective, so I thought you looking at the place might set his mind at ease.’
Connor studied her. He should leave. Stay the hell away from her and Duncan MacKenzie. He’d had one near-miss today and the last thing he needed was more trouble. But then he thought of the alternative, of facing his gran again and wondering if she would recognize him, of clearing her house, the memories and doubts crowding in on him as he packed up a life.
‘Okay,’ he said, standing. ‘Give me the tour. But on one condition.’
Jen gave him a quizzical look.
‘When we’re done I get to cook you dinner.’
‘Depends,’ she said.
‘On what?’
‘Whether the offer comes with the takeaway guarantee. If you’re a crap cook I want a pizza. No arguments. And you pay for the stuffed crust as an apology.’
Connor laughed. ‘Deal,’ he said.
CHAPTER 28
Donna stood outside the Portcullis, watching Mark’s car pull away, a strange hollowness in her chest.
It was odd, she thought. She had walked into the pub, anger and defiance churning in her gut, but when she’d seen him sitting at a table near the bar, she had felt it drain away, replaced by something she couldn’t quite name. He still looked the same, tall, lithe, with sharp features and a swarthy complexion, but there was a . . . vacancy about him. As though something vital had been stolen. She felt a stab of savage glee, then a flash of self-loathing as she found herself hoping it was losing her that had done this to him.
He gave a faltering smile as she approached, pushed a drink across the table towards her. They exchanged pleasantries, Donna keeping it brusque, businesslike. There was a conversation they weren’t having, both of them dancing around it, like fighters trying to get the measure of an opponent, neither willing to make the opening gambit. But it was a conversation they had to have. About Andrew. About whether Mark would have any role in his son’s life.
When Mark saw that Donna’s attitude wasn’t going to thaw, he abandoned the affable pretence and got down to business. He told her a story. One she barely believed. One that made her want to kiss and slap him at the same time.
‘I’m telling you this as I owe you,’ he had told her at the end.
Standing in the car park now, she knew that for the bullshit it was. He had told her because he needed her to break the story so he and everyone else could follow. Let the freelancer take the heat – didn’t matter, the story would be in the public domain and every news organization in the country could follow up on it. He dressed it up as her continuing to lead on it, showing she could break exclusive lines for the nationals, but he was using her. She hated him for it, hated herself more for admiring the way he was manipulating the news cycle, moving her like a chess piece to get to the story he wanted to write.
She looked down at the pad she still held and scanned the notes she had made, focusing on the name she had written in the centre of the page and circled. Beside it, there was one word, underlined three times, surrounded by question marks. She read it again, felt the magnitude press down on her.
She took her phone from her bag and called the number, a shudder twisting down her spine as she gazed along the cobbled street, past the entrance to the cemetery and towards Cowane’s Hospital.
The call was answered. ‘Donna, I really can’t—’
‘Danny,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘I’m calling you as a favour, giving you ten minutes’ head start on this, okay?’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ he asked, his tone telling her he didn’t want to know.
She felt excitement crackle through her veins. ‘As soon as I hang up on you, I’m going to call Ford,’ she said, unable to keep the smile off her face, even as her stomach churned with revulsion. ‘And I’m going to ask him two questions. On the record. And believe me, Danny, he’s going to come to you asking how to answer them. I’m going to ask him to confirm that the first victim was found to have a well-known Loyalist tattoo on his body, and that reports he was found decapitated in the grounds of Cowane’s Hospital yesterday morning are true.’
Danny’s voice was a strangled yelp of panic. ‘Fuck’s sake! Donna, how did you— You can’t! The chief, he’ll, well—’
‘Danny, calm down. You’re missing the point. This is good news for you.’
‘Oh? And how the fuck do you get that?’
‘Because, Danny, if he pushes me, I’ll confirm that my source for this is not within Randolphfield or anyone else in Police Scotland’s Forth Valley Division. Which puts you in the cle
ar with Ford and the chief. And better than that, Danny, we’re even. So do what you need to do. Get your lines ready, because I’ll be calling Ford in ten minutes.’
CHAPTER 29
Connor enjoyed the heft of the knife in his hand as he chopped vegetables, the sound of the blade on the wooden board as he sliced the onions and diced the garlic oddly satisfying. From the living room, he heard the faint pop of a cork followed by the soft glug of wine into glasses, smiled to himself as he worked.
The check of Jen’s flat hadn’t taken long – the truth was, there wasn’t much to see. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, the open-plan kitchen/living room. Security-wise, it was a straightforward story: the entry door was adequate, as long as no one decided to leave it on the latch for friends or deliverymen. She knew not to open her front door without checking who was there. The balcony was a slight concern but, at three floors up and with a high guard rail, it was an unlikely point of entry.
Connor banished the thought, focused on his cooking. He had done as asked, and hoped his word would be enough to ease the paranoid fears of Duncan MacKenzie. Despite his reputation, surely he wasn’t associated with anything serious enough to endanger his daughter. His employees, maybe – the way he had accepted what had happened to Paulie told Connor he was ready for such losses – but Jen? No. Connor didn’t think so.
She came into the kitchen carrying a glass of red. After finishing his sweep of the flat, they had ventured out to the nearby Morrison’s, Connor driving. He was surprised how much he enjoyed the simple act of wandering the aisles with her, picking up food. It was a chore he normally hated, putting it off until there was nothing left in the flat, but there was something about the prosaic nature of the errand that soothed him, reinforced his sense that the nightmare was over.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the glass and raising it in a toast. Sipped. Not bad, but he’d have to watch what he was doing if he was going to drive home later.
If.
‘You sure I can’t do anything to help?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder at the array of chopped vegetables and meat. He was making a Thai green curry, one of the few dishes he knew how to make from memory. He enjoyed cooking, but the pleasure for him was in following the recipes as closely as possible, letting the cookbook make the decisions for him.
‘Nope, just relax. It’ll take me about half an hour.’
‘Perfect,’ she said, smiling over her wine glass. ‘I’ll put some music on.’
Connor went back to his work. Heard music drift into the kitchen from the living area a moment later.
‘This okay?’ Jen called.
‘It’s fine,’ Connor replied. He didn’t really care. Music for him was mainly for distraction, something to take his mind off the pain in his body as he trained or drown out the silence in the car as he drove.
He lost himself in cooking. After a few minutes, the jingle for the local station played, followed by the announcer saying it was time for the news.
‘Investigations are continuing into two deaths in and around Stirling in two days, with further details emerging on both cases. This from our reporter Donna Blake.’
The station cut to Donna, her voice warped by the static of blowing wind. Connor wondered if that was intentional, to give the impression that she was on the scene as she spoke.
‘The discovery of a body in the grounds of Stirling University was the second in two days, coming after police were called to Cowane’s Hospital at the top of the town in the early hours of yesterday morning. While they have yet to comment on the bodies, or formally identify either of the victims, I understand that the first body was found to be severely mutilated and police are working on a solid line of enquiry regarding the victim’s identity.
‘Less is known about the body found this morning at the Stirling Court Hotel on the university campus, but sources have stated that police are pursuing a firm line of enquiry relating to a dedication found in a book nearby.’
Connor froze, the knife hanging in mid-air, the spitting of the wok forgotten. Don’t say it, a voice whispered in his mind. Christ, please, don’t say it.
‘The dedication, written in a copy of Misery, by Stephen King, alludes to the book being a different edition of the same story, and is signed as “from L”. Any listeners who are familiar with this, or think they may know who owned such a book, are encouraged to call . . .’
Connor didn’t hear the rest of the report. It was as if God had wrapped His hands around his head and was squeezing. He felt an enormous pressure behind his eyes, heard a rising whine in his ears. The world seemed to lurch and spin, and he reached out to lean on the kitchen work surface, the knife clattering to the floor.
Jen came in, concern sketched across her too-pale face. Her voice seemed to come from a thousand miles away. ‘Connor? You okay? God, you didn’t cut yourself, did you? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’ She bustled past him and moved the wok, which was starting to smoke, from the ring. ‘Come on,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Let’s go and sit down.’
He let her lead him to the living room, sat heavily on the couch. He felt as though his lungs were filling with gravel, found it hard to breathe. Looked at her. ‘What did that reporter say just now?’ he asked, mouth as dry as sandpaper.
‘I wasn’t really listening,’ she said. ‘Look, Connor, what’s going on? Do you need a doctor?’
He felt laughter rise in his throat. Swallowed it. A doctor? No, that was the last thing he needed. What he needed was lying in the dark in a safe under his bed. Somehow Simon had been wrong and Connor had been right, just as he had known from the moment he saw that fucking book on the TV.
Not the same edition, but the same horror story . . . L.
He pushed aside the desperate thought that this could all be a coincidence, knowing it for the hysterical lie that it was. Whatever was going on, it was all connected to Jonny Hughes. The book was a message for Connor, just as it had been in Belfast.
Connor seized on the thought, hugged it close. Felt his confusion and panic dissolve, replaced by a fury that seeped through him, darkening the shadows of his thoughts, shrinking his vision to a sharp focal point.
No. He had been down this road once before. In Belfast, he had let that message ruin his life. It had cost him his fiancée, his home. His future.
Not this time. Not again. Message received. And this time, whoever had sent it, even if it was Jonny Hughes somehow reaching out from beyond the grave, would pay.
CHAPTER 30
Ford stood in a hastily requisitioned office at Randolphfield, staring at the wall-mounted TV. The chief was in front of it, arms crossed, glaring. Danny was close to the door, watching Guthrie intently, as though he were some wild animal that was about to leap at him and tear his throat out at any moment. Given what they had just seen, Ford guessed the odds of that actually happening were fairly even.
At least, he thought, Danny had warned him the call from Blake was coming, which had given him time to get his anger out of the way, allowed him to handle it professionally. He had stonewalled her questions on Billy Griffin and the extent of his injuries, managed to persuade her to be vague in her report with the promise of further insights as the case progressed. It was an expedient lie that got him – and the investigation – out of an immediate and very dark hole.
But the question remained: who had told her? He had pressed her on where she’d got the information on Griffin and what had been found at the Stirling Court, threatened her with every charge he could think of, to no avail. All she would say was that none of the information she had was provided by anyone in Forth Valley or directly linked to the investigation.
Looking at Danny now, and the wary anxiety with which he was watching Guthrie, Ford almost believed her.
‘So, gentlemen,’ Guthrie said, eyes not moving from the television, ‘what do you suggest we do next?’
Danny surprised Ford by speaking first. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, his voice as anxious as his gaze, ‘it�
�s not as bad as it might have been. I understand Blake did a report for the local radio station as well as the TV piece we’ve just seen, and if she kept the details we asked her to withhold out of that as well, I think this is a result. The story is out, we’re seen to be working on the investigation, and this could jog memories and help us identify the second victim.’
‘That’s hardly the fucking point, is it, Brooks?’ Guthrie said. ‘The fact that this information got out at all is an absolute disgrace.’ His eyes slid from Danny to Ford. ‘Tell me, DCI Ford, just what type of investigation are you running here?’
Ford bit back the answer he wanted to give. So it was his investigation again, was it? At the press conference, Guthrie had all but said it would be handed over to Special Investigations, with him pulling the strings. Now that the shit was hitting the fan again, it was Ford’s problem to deal with.
‘Sir,’ he said, keeping his tone neutral, looking at a point just over Guthrie’s shoulder to ensure he stayed calm, ‘with all due respect, my officers and I are doing the best we can. We’re running the ID checks on the second victim as fast as resources allow, and we’re double-checking with Glasgow about Griffin’s last known whereabouts. We’re also pulling all available CCTV footage to try to . . .’
Guthrie waved him into silence. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s all well and good, but we need some bloody results. I’ve already had Ken Ferguson breathing down my neck, and at this rate I’ll have the First Minister knocking at my door by the end of the day. This is not good, DCI Ford, not good at all.’
Despite himself, Ford felt a sliver of sympathy for Guthrie. The justice secretary, Ken Ferguson, had not had an easy time since he’d been given the job three months ago. With the government being constantly beaten over the head by political opponents and the press about the well-publicized problems at Police Scotland – and the matter of how a previous chief constable had left due to some of his more hands-on working practices – the service was a constant headache for Ferguson. He was known for his temper, enjoyed shouting down senior officers, who were stripped of their own authority the moment they walked into his office. It had gained him a nickname among the ranks: Fuck You Ferguson. And he would be looking for someone to blame for this mess, especially with that bitch Blake putting it all on show.
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