No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  ‘Sir, you know what these cases are like – long hours and legwork. We’re increasing foot patrols in the centre of town and around the castle area to reassure residents and tourists, and we’re using every channel we have to get information. With Special Investigations taking a role, that should give us more manpower to help speed things up.’

  Guthrie nodded, then turned his attention to Danny. ‘Get this managed, son,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what it takes, but no more fucking leaks, understood? Bad enough this got out, even if we managed to exert a modicum of control, but no more. Clear?’

  ‘Totally, sir,’ Danny said.

  ‘Right. Get on it,’ Guthrie said, as he pulled his hat so tightly onto his head that it forced his ears down. ‘And, Ford, the moment you have anything . . .’

  ‘I’ll let you know, sir, though I take it you’ll be at the update briefing later?’

  ‘Actually, no. I have to update Fu– Ferguson, so I won’t attend.’

  Bastard, Ford thought. Trying to put some space between himself and the case while it was toxic. Typical politician.

  ‘Very good, sir. Can I see you out?’

  ‘No need. Brooks here can do that,’ Guthrie replied. Ford was sure he saw Danny flinch.

  ‘Uh . . . Of course, sir,’ Danny said, swinging the door open.

  When they had left, Ford closed his eyes and took a moment to soak in the silence. He wanted to go home. Wanted bed. Sleep. To see Mary. Instead, he had this, and no end in sight. ‘Miles to go,’ he muttered.

  His mobile chirped in his pocket, forcing him from his thoughts.

  ‘Troughton?’ He listened, felt tension bunch his shoulders as the detective sergeant spoke.

  ‘We’ve got an ID on the second victim. It’s Helen Russell.’

  ‘Who? I know that name, why would I . . .’

  ‘She’s a councillor, sir, Tory, Stirling North. Reported missing by her husband an hour ago. He thought she was away at a party event at the Parliament in Edinburgh, got worried when she didn’t come home and she didn’t answer her mobile.’

  Ford felt his mouth go dry. Fuck. A councillor. A public figure. More headlines. That was the last thing he needed.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, the information hitting him like a shot of caffeine. ‘Get everyone assembled. Case conference in one hour. Run her name with Griffin’s, see if there are any connections. I doubt there will be, but the chief will ask.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

  ‘Not for now. I’ll be back down shortly,’ Ford said, and killed the call.

  He stood for a moment, considering his phone, trying to order his thoughts. One came to him, randomly, and he spoke in the silence: ‘Helen Russell. So who the hell is Connie?’

  CHAPTER 31

  Connor sat in his flat, mind racing with possibilities, each less attractive than the last. He knew the call would cause him trouble, but he didn’t care. He needed information. Badly. And Lachlan Jameson could get it for him. He’d proven that the day they’d first met.

  It was a month after everything had gone wrong in Belfast. Connor was back home, opting to rent a crappy flat just off Leith Walk in Edinburgh rather than living in Stirling, which, after the death of his mother, felt like a ghost-ridden no man’s land in the ongoing war of silence between him and his father. He was mostly living off his savings, but the money was fast running out, and the side income he was making from giving personal training sessions at a high-class hotel on the Bridges wasn’t cutting it.

  He was on his way to one of those classes, resigned to spending an hour with a bored housewife – too much money, too little class and too much oestrogen – as he put her through her paces in the gym. He had already decided he would up the weights, intensify the cardio. It wasn’t going to be the type of sweat she was hoping to work up with him, but it was the best she was going to get.

  He was just walking up the Bridges admiring, as he always did, the view across the roof of Waverley station to the Scott Monument and the castle when his phone rang, an unrecognized number on the screen.

  ‘Hello.’ No names. Not for an unknown caller. Let them make the first move.

  ‘Hello,’ a voice boomed, the bass accentuating the clipped elocution. ‘Connor Fraser?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Mr Fraser, I’m Lachlan Jameson, and I’d like to discuss an opportunity with you.’

  He’d met him a day later, at the office of Sentinel Securities in a nondescript industrial park tucked behind the Gyle shopping centre. Against his better judgement, Connor found he liked the man straight away. He was tall and thin, given extra height and presence by the way he constantly seemed to be standing to attention, shoulders thrust back, spine ramrod straight, chest out. With his tweed suit, impeccable grooming and angular, almost hawkish features, he might as well have had ‘ex-army’ tattooed across his forehead.

  The meeting was like Jameson’s haircut: short, efficient, straight to the point. Connor was ushered into a corner office with windows for walls, the view of the industrial estate drab, the perfunctory greenery that had been dotted around to make it look less brutal only enhancing its functional appearance.

  ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing Connor to take a seat.

  Connor took the chair directly opposite Jameson, who had barricaded himself behind a huge oak desk that was out of place with the cool, modern elegance of the rest of the offices but seemed to fit the room, and its occupant, perfectly.

  ‘So,’ he said, lacing his fingers together. ‘I take it you’ve done a little background on us by now, Mr Fraser. What do you think?’

  Connor smiled slightly. First test. Did you do your homework? ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘You’ve been running Sentinel for the last ten years, since you retired from the army and took a stint in private contracting, mostly in the Middle East, protecting oil execs from jihadis and kidnap threats. Since then, you’ve “built Sentinel into one of the most prestigious private and close security firms in the country”.’

  Jameson dipped his head, acknowledging the quote Connor had lifted from the company website, and the background detail on his military career he definitely had not. From what his contacts and background research told him, Lachlan Jameson was an enthusiastic private-sector operative. Connor had been coy in his description, but he’d been given enough hints that the man in front of him wasn’t purely a protector. If the money was right, he could turn his hand to hunting too.

  ‘We work with politicians, high-net-worth individuals, VIPs, diplomats. We offer a range of personal-security solutions, from escorting to reconnaissance and close protection. And I think this is where you come in, Mr Fraser.’

  ‘How so?’ Connor said, asking the question that had been plaguing him since the call the previous day. He had others too: how had Jameson got his number? How had he even known he was back in Scotland? But those would come later.

  Jameson leant back in his chair. ‘A large part of this business is intelligence, Mr Fraser,’ he said, with a precision that told Connor he had given this speech before. ‘Knowing which assets are on the board at any time. I have contacts. One of them reached out to me, told me that a talented officer with a bright future had abruptly abandoned a career with the Police Service of Northern Ireland to return home. He tells me the official reason was family bereavement, but I think we can dispense with that formality, can’t we?’

  Connor felt as though he had just been stabbed with a shard of ice. He blinked away the memory of Belfast, of air scalding his lungs as he fought for breath, his fists numb and blood-soaked, a crumpled body gurgling and moaning at his feet. ‘I, ah . . .’

  Jameson raised a hand. ‘As I said, unimportant. You did what you thought was right. Took direct action. I appreciate that. But the fact remains, here you are, squandering your training and talent. My question is, would you be willing to use them for me?’

  He had made the job offer on the spot, and Connor had taken a day to accept it. In that time he called ever
y contact he still trusted in Belfast to see who had spoken about him – every one of them had come back with the same answer: Not us, but this guy must be connected.

  Connor hoped that was the case now. He needed it to be.

  He called the number. Waited.

  ‘Connor. Nice to hear from you. Where’s that report you owe me?’

  He screwed his eyes shut, ground the cool of the gun butt against his temple. ‘Lachlan, sorry about that. I’ll get to it, I promise. But right now, I need a favour.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Jameson said, irritation creeping into his tone. Connor could understand it. As a former lieutenant colonel, Lachlan Jamieson was used to having orders followed promptly. For an employee to ask a favour without completing an assignment was anathema to him.

  ‘Yes, Lachlan. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.’

  A soft grunt at the other end of the line as Jameson sat in his office chair. ‘Urgency is relative, Connor,’ he said. ‘Tell me what this is about, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Connor paused for a second. How much could he tell him? How much would he tell him? He took a deep breath. ‘I take it you’ve been keeping up with the news, the murders here?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I have.’ A pause, then humour lightened his tone. ‘Don’t tell me you’re taking it personally and have decided to go vigilante on home ground?’

  Connor grated out a laugh. ‘Nothing like that, but there’s something about the university murder that got me thinking. And I was wondering if you had anyone in the local police force I could talk to. With all your contacts, I thought you must know someone.’

  He waited, hoping his pandering to Jameson’s ego hadn’t been too obvious.

  ‘Hmm . . . There may be someone I could put you in touch with, but my question, again, is why? This doesn’t concern you, Connor, and the last thing I need is an employee of Sentinel Securities making a mess in two murder investigations. Our clients demand discretion, remember?’

  ‘Of course,’ Connor said. ‘Call it professional curiosity, but there’s something I want to verify. I’ll keep it quiet, Lachlan, I promise.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jameson sighed. ‘I’ll indulge you this once. I have someone in mind and I’ll get them to call you shortly. This number okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Connor agreed, trying to keep the edge of impatience out of his tone. How long was ‘shortly’? The longer he waited, the closer Hughes, or whoever it was, could be getting. He needed answers. Now.

  ‘Very well. But, Connor, you realize there’s a price to be paid for this?’

  Connor tightened his grip on the gun. ‘No problem, Lachlan. I’ll have that report to you within the hour. And thanks, I owe you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jameson said bluntly. ‘You do. Just remember that, Connor.’

  CHAPTER 32

  Matt Evans languished in a place beyond terror, his thoughts shattered into a thousand jagged shards, each one slashing at his sanity as it formed then dissolved.

  He was dead. He’d known that much from the moment his captor had loomed over him, those dead eyes boring into him as he held an iPad up to eye level and scrolled through the coverage of the Cowane’s Hospital murder. He said nothing, the only sound his breathing, the silence of the room stretched taut by his presence. It had taken only moments for Evans to break the silence, his desperate, incoherent pleas echoing off the walls of his prison, accompanied by the clang of the chain around his foot as he bucked and thrashed, begging to be freed. He’d felt no shame as he babbled hysterically, his nostrils filling with the hot, rancid smell of his own piss. Shame was infinitely preferable to the agonies that could be visited on him at any moment.

  Dead, empty eyes that seemed somehow to draw in the darkness of the room watched him. Then, with a smile that was little more than a baring of teeth, the monster knelt before him, drawing an object from a pocket.

  When Evans saw what it was, understanding flooded his mind in a caustic torrent. It was as though he had been possessed by terror and the object had triggered an exorcism. He writhed and bucked and screamed, oblivious to the shackle around his ankle biting into his flesh and becoming slick with his own blood.

  When the hand touched his forehead, he froze. His eyes bulged, his mouth worked soundlessly, trying to articulate a scream too big to be released. Warm fingers traced a path across his forehead in an obscenely intimate caress. He almost didn’t hear the gentle ‘Ssh,’ his ears ringing from his own scream. But he heard what was said next, a question he had known was coming.

  ‘You know what I want?’

  He had nodded, eager to please, the thought of the object he had been shown flashing in his mind. He could imagine it biting into him, tearing, gouging, rending. He would do anything, tell everything, to avoid that.

  He had been left then, alone with his thoughts and the memory of those headlines. ‘Murder in Stirling’. ‘Victims suffered prolonged, savage attack’. He pleaded to a God he didn’t believe in, wept for his own wasted life and the days the headlines had told him would now never be.

  Time lost all meaning to him. How long had he been left alone in the dark, with only his nightmares for company? Hours? Minutes? Days? A sudden thought seized him, hope swelling in his chest. Perhaps the police had caught him. Perhaps he wasn’t coming back. A giddying wave of claustrophobia crashed through him, the thought of dying in the dark from hunger or dehydration seizing him. But even in this, there was relief. It would be a better end than the one he had been promised.

  The fragile hope he nurtured was crushed by the sound of footsteps. Evans listened to them, the floorboards above creaking with his captor’s weight. Then they stopped, and the silence rushed in on him again.

  And in that silence, he heard one word. It tormented and terrified him, filled him with ever-escalating nightmares.

  ‘Soon.’

  CHAPTER 33

  The call was an unwelcome surprise, triggering a frantic panic that made him feel as though the walls were closing in on him. The phone buzzed against his chest, insistent, and he pawed for it as though it was a burning coal.

  He hit the answer button, clamped it to his ear, a thousand thoughts tumbling through his mind. ‘H-hello?’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ The same voice, formal, businesslike, as though the devil himself had started making insurance calls. ‘I take it you’ve seen the latest news.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I have. But why are you calling? Is there a problem with the payment or—’

  ‘No, the payment was fine. But I wanted to tell you there’s been a slight change of plan.’

  Another stab of panic, the phone growing heavy in his hand. ‘What? What change of plan? I thought we agreed.’

  ‘We did. But then I started thinking. While there’s no risk of exposure, it couldn’t hurt to muddy the waters a little.’

  He felt as though the world was tilting, the floor threatening to fall away beneath him. ‘W-what do you mean?’

  A glint of humour, jagged and cruel, coloured the normally businesslike tone. ‘You’ll see soon enough. Just keep watching the news. Stick to your routine, keep your head down. And, trust me, you’ll like this. It’ll really give you something to talk about.’

  The line went dead and he stared at the phone. His gorge rose, his stomach giving a watery lurch. He swallowed, forced himself to breathe, then smoothed down his tie with a hand that was almost steady. He reached for the door to ask Margaret to arrange his next appointment.

  The caller was right. He had no option but to go on as normal, keep up the lie he had been living for so long. He would see what was planned soon enough. And when it happened, when he had ‘something to talk about’, he would do what he always did.

  He would adapt. And survive.

  CHAPTER 34

  The discovery of Helen Russell’s identity was like stabbing a syringe of adrenalin into the heart of the investigation. It galvanized resources and drew the attention of those who were content to keep the whole mess at arm’s
length when it was only an unidentified woman and a low-level thug who had been brutally beaten and slain. But when it was discovered that the second victim was a long-standing member of the Scottish Tories, everything was cast into a new light. Griffin’s cheap tattoo and political background suddenly became a major line of enquiry, the manner of both deaths a cause for concern in the corridors of power.

  Ford felt a strange mix of fury and weary acceptance when he and Chief Superintendent Doyle were summoned by the chief constable. He’d known what was coming the moment the case conference was cancelled. He told himself it was nothing personal.

  Everything was political, these days.

  ‘Given the profile of Mrs Russell, and the possible Loyalist link to the Griffin murder, it has been decided that Special Investigations will liaise with Special Branch, which will now be leading on both investigations,’ Guthrie told Ford and Doyle, in the same cramped room where he had been briefed by Danny less than two hours before. He seemed smaller to Ford, diminished somehow, the only part of him showing any lustre was the epaulettes on his uniform, which winked in the glare of the strip lighting overhead.

  ‘DCI Ford, if you could prepare your casework for transfer. You may need, of course, to second some of your officers depending on workloads, but your primary responsibility will be to ensure a smooth and efficient handover, and facilitate any request Special Branch may have.’