No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  Ford kept his breathing steady as he murmured agreement, an image of Billy Griffin’s mutilated head flashing across his mind. He knew all too well what Guthrie’s order meant. Give up your office, get out of the way. Prepare to have your staff assigned every shit detail and piece of legwork going. The big boys are coming to town to show the local yokels how it’s done. ‘Of course, sir,’ he managed, ignoring the sharp look from Doyle beside him.

  Guthrie held his gaze for a moment, as though confirming something for himself. Then he straightened his back, as though the action would inject some authority into his voice. It didn’t.

  ‘You will, of course, keep yourself available at all times tomorrow in case Mr Ferguson wishes to speak to you and discuss your work on the case up to this point.’

  Ford winced, hoped it didn’t show on his face. Ferguson. It explained why Guthrie looked and sounded like a child who had just had his favourite toy taken away. Two murders in two days was a bad headline at any time, but given the negative press the police service had been experiencing recently, it had been seized on not only by the press but the politicians too.

  Danny, who was doing his best to prove himself invaluable after the whole Donna Blake cluster-fuck, was providing Ford with regular updates on how the story was playing out. The short answer was badly, which made sense of Ferguson’s imminent visit. He wanted – needed – to be seen to be taking charge of the situation, show that he could rise above politics to find a merciless killer and keep all the precious voters of Stirling safe. More importantly, Ferguson’s visit would give him the perfect opportunity to find a scapegoat for this mess, deflect it away from the government’s management of Police Scotland, the lack of resources and the overstretched staff, back onto the shoulders of the officers who were on the ground.

  Ford was going to make sure it wouldn’t be him.

  Message delivered, Guthrie dismissed them. They were walking along a narrow corridor when Doyle’s pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone without breaking stride, clamped it to his ear and snapped a greeting in a tone that said he almost hoped it was bad news, something or someone to focus his frustration on.

  It wasn’t. He stopped dead, surprising Ford, who continued down the hall for a couple of steps before he registered what had happened. He turned, closed the gap between them, a silent question pulling his eyebrows high on his forehead. Doyle held up a silencing hand.

  ‘Yes . . . No. Of course. I understand. But you have to realize . . . No. Not at all. How could I? . . . No problem. Text me the details.’ He ended the call, gazed at the phone. It buzzed a moment later, the text he had mentioned being delivered.

  ‘Sir?’

  Doyle looked up, as though startled from a daydream.

  ‘Sir, are you all right? Was that—’

  Doyle held up his hand again. His eyes darted around Ford’s face as he stared at him, a nerve pulsing in his jaw. Then his gaze hardened into a decision. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask, Ford,’ he said, his voice as still as his stare. ‘There’s someone I need you to talk to.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Donna was back at her desk at Valley FM, trying to ignore the flashing lights that danced across her phone, showing the calls waiting. Across the newsroom, she could see Gina pacing around her office, gesticulating wildly as she spoke into a mobile.

  She’d managed to co-ordinate her reports, giving the exclusive to Valley first over the phone, then meeting the Sky cameraman at Cowane’s Hospital and doing the piece to camera. She couldn’t have asked for a better backdrop – the police still standing sentry, passers-by and tourists milling around, curiosity outweighing their fear. After the live feed, she had grabbed a couple for vox pops, asking what they thought of the murders, did they feel safe? It was predictable human-interest crap and she hated it, but she knew that it was just the type of meaningless filler Sky would need while they waited for the next big headline.

  And there would be one. Donna was sure of it.

  Her phone had started ringing almost as soon as the story broke. Old colleagues from the Westie, the BBC, even CNN and the Press Association all asking if she had any leads, if she was still stringing and able to provide content. She stood, letting the moment wash over her. So what if Mark had used her to get what he wanted? She had what she wanted as well. She was back, breaking a story, leading the pack.

  The euphoria lasted until she was halfway back to the Valley office – Gina insisting she come in so they could co-ordinate her workload. ‘I’ve got no problem with you punting the story around other outlets,’ she told Donna, ‘but I need to know I can count on you, especially since that stupid fucker Matt is still AWOL.’

  She’d made the mistake of not screening her calls on the mobile, caught up in the moment of being in demand again. Thumbed the answer key on the steering wheel, heard a wash of static fill the car, followed by the soft gurgling of a baby.

  Andrew.

  ‘Hello? Mum? Is everything all right? Is Andrew okay?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ her mum replied. ‘He’s fine. We saw you on the TV and you looked great.’

  Donna frowned at the steering wheel, off balance. Disapproval, passive aggression, these she could take from her mother, had learnt to expect. But praise? It sent a tremor of alarm through her gut. ‘Eh, thanks. Could do better, but I’ll get there.’

  ‘Yes, dear, I’m sure you will. But from the sound of it you’re in the car. Is that you heading home now?’

  Donna ground her teeth, bit back a curse. Of course. She should have known. ‘I’m heading back to the office just now, Mum, got a couple of things to wrap up. But I shouldn’t be too much longer. Is that okay?’

  A grumble down the phone. ‘It’ll have to be, won’t it? Donna, it’s not that we mind having Andrew, but he’s hardly seen you today, and the boy needs his mum.’

  Donna tightened her grip on the steering wheel, trying to drown out the part of her deep inside that was murmuring agreement with her mother, the part of her that would look down on her child as he slept in stunned wonder and wanted nothing more than to hold him close to her breast, get lost in his warmth and smell. But what would she be if she did that? Just another stay-at-home mum, her dreams and ambitions sidelined, replaced by an endless routine of nappy changes, nursery collections and visits to the soft play.

  No. Not for her. She was doing this for them both. Rebuilding her career and her life, showing her son that, no matter what happened, you did not give up on what you really wanted.

  If she concentrated, she could almost make herself believe it.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But this story is big. You saw me today, Sky News. And they want more. I just need to straighten a couple of things out at the station, then I’ll be home. Promise. It’s not like I don’t miss Andrew too.’

  Her mother murmured something that could almost have been genuine agreement. ‘Well, all right.’ She sighed, her tone heavy with the weary disappointment she had perfected over the last thirty-four years. ‘I’ll have something in the oven for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Donna said, killing the call.

  She arrived at Valley to find the newsroom in chaos. Every phone line was clogged with callers desperate to identify the second victim or claim responsibility for one or both murders. And, to top it all, Gina told her that Matt Evans was still AWOL, and they had no idea if he was going to make the evening phone-in.

  Donna watched as Gina finished whatever call she was making, then stalked out of her office. She felt a shiver of unease as she realized she was heading straight for her.

  ‘Days like this, I really fucking wish I hadn’t given up drinking,’ Gina said, her face pulled into a tight smile.

  Donna smiled back at her. ‘Tough call?’ she asked, nodding towards Gina’s office.

  Gina barked a laugh that drew a few glances from around the room. ‘You could say that. High heidyins from MediaSound’s boardroom. They wanted to make sure we were watertight on y
our story – seems the police have been on at them again, accusing you of jeopardizing the investigation.’

  Donna had been expecting this. She knew that was why Mark had given her the tip – to let her be the one to break it and take the heat. Luckily, Ford had been smart enough not to deny anything and, in return, Donna had agreed to water down the content of her report. It made for an uneasy truce, but with the added attention, the police had to be seen to be going through the moves, which was why their lawyers had been so quick off the mark.

  ‘It’s solid,’ she said, her cheeks starting to burn. ‘The contact I got the information from is reliable. Besides, everyone will be all over it now – the moment they identify the second body, we’ll move on to that and this will be a gruesome footnote.’

  ‘About that,’ Gina said, ‘you got anything you can give me?’

  ‘Not yet, but as soon as I have, I will. Sky still want me to do the follows for them as well.’

  Gins pushed her glasses up her face, massaged her eyes. ‘Look, Donna, I understand. You’re freelance, you have to go where the money and the exposure are. But just remember who put you on air when you needed it, okay? Especially at the moment . . .’

  Donna brushed off the slight. It was true. When Mark had sloped back to his wife, Gina had stepped forward and offered her the freelance contract. It had been enough to build up some savings, and give her a job to come back to when Andrew was born. ‘So, Matt?’ she said, trying to divert the conversation to safer ground.

  Gina sneered. ‘Useless bastard,’ she hissed. ‘I don’t care that he was a big shot in Edinburgh, he’s been a fucking liability here.’

  Donna had heard the stories about Matt Evans. A shock jock talk-show specialist, who peppered his shows with profanity, humour and just the right amount of wolf-whistle controversy to win him regular tabloid coverage and an army of unnervingly loyal fans. But then came the 2014 independence referendum, and his on-air rant about which Unionists he was sure would be ‘better together’ with a baseball bat, a rabid dog or ‘a woman who really hates a big Johnson’.

  The firestorm of protest following the broadcast, which named as many high-profile politicians as it hinted at, had got him fired from his radio show on Edinburgh’s EBA FM, and the late-night TV show at the local STV offshoot that he fronted. But in another fine example of shit floating, he had survived and, somehow, got a job at Valley FM. Donna hated knowing that they had that in common – both refugees from a mistake, finding sanctuary in Valley FM when no one else would take them. ‘Anything I can help with?’ she asked, blinking away the thought.

  ‘Fancy doing his show tonight?’ Gina asked, a half-smile twitching her lips. ‘You’re topic of the day anyway, and it’s good exposure.’

  Donna paused, thinking hard. The evening talk-show ran from ten p.m. to two a.m., covering the stories of the day, a phone-in and topical guests. Okay, it was only local, but imagine what it could do for her show reel! She could see the line now – Donna Blake, reporter and presenter. And where would that lead?

  Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, derailing the fantasy. Andrew needs his mum.

  ‘Nah, I’d better not,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I need to get home.’

  Gina murmured resigned agreement. ‘Worth a shot,’ she said.

  She was about ten feet away when Donna called to her, ‘If you get really stuck, let me know, okay? I’ll see what I can do.’

  Gina waved in acknowledgement, then walked away. Donna watched her go, a bilious mix of excitement and rage roiling in her gut. She snatched at her mobile when it rang, frustration curdling at the back of her throat when she saw the number calling. She hit answer and clamped it to her ear as she headed for the door. ‘Wait,’ she said.

  She banged through the double doors of the station, took a left and followed a path to the back of the building, where cigarette butts lay puddled around a bin, denoting the unofficial smokers’ area. She could almost taste the acrid tang of smoke on her tongue, feel the desiccated burn in her lungs. She hadn’t smoked for ten years but in that moment she wanted a cigarette.

  ‘OK. What?’

  ‘Story seemed to go well,’ Mark said, his tone somewhere between hesitant and triumphant. ‘Just wanted to check in.’

  She breathed hard, closed her eyes. What the fuck did he want? Another thank-you? ‘Got another tip for me?’ she asked. ‘Or have I taken enough heat for you and the rest of the press for one day?’

  ‘Donna, I . . .’

  She sighed, felt weariness press down on her shoulders. ‘Look, Mark, I’m grateful for the lead. It’s helped. But if you’ve nothing else for me—’

  His words came out in a rush: ‘Well, it’s just that I’m going to be covering this now. With the way you blew the lid off it, everyone wants a piece of the story. So I’m going to be in Stirling for the next few days, staying in town.’

  Donna felt a twist of heat, her heart beating faster. She knew where this was going. She should hang up now.

  ‘. . . was wondering if I could see you and Andrew at some point.’

  She stared hard at the overflowing bin, felt an urge to charge forward and kick it over. She spoke as if on auto-pilot. ‘Why? Why do you want to see him now, Mark?’

  ‘Well, he is my son.’

  Despite herself, she laughed. Hated the hard, bitter edge she heard in her voice. ‘Your son? He was your son up until the moment you shit yourself when you found out I was pregnant, Mark. He was your son right up until the moment you scurried back to Emma rather than having the balls to be a father. Christ, was that what today was about? Throw me a bone and somehow all would be forgiven?’

  ‘Donna, I didn’t think – didn’t mean—’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said, weariness replacing the burst of anger. ‘You did me a favour today. I did you one in return. Call it old times’ sake. But stay away from us, Mark. For Andrew if not for me. You made your choice. Live with it.’

  She killed the call before he could answer, dropped the phone to her side as though it was made of lead. The rubbish bin doubled, then trebled, as tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away angrily, sniffed back the sob that ached in her throat.

  Who the fuck did he think he was? He’d chosen his wife over her and Andrew, and now it was convenient, he thought he could just walk back into their lives.

  No. No way.

  Resolved, she went to find Gina. By the time she was back in the newsroom, she had convinced herself that the pang of regret she felt was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

  CHAPTER 36

  He told himself he wasn’t going to make the call.

  When Chief Superintendent Doyle had broached the subject with him, Ford’s first thought was that he was going mad. Here was a senior officer, a career policeman of almost thirty years’ experience, asking one of his senior detectives to discuss confidential details of an ongoing inquiry with a civilian.

  Ford was too stunned to speak, turning to walk away from his boss in a show of disrespect that would have been unthinkable only an hour ago. He got about ten feet away when he felt Doyle’s fingers bite into his arm and spin him round. Doyle’s face was a mask of tension, his lips thin and bloodless beneath the pencil moustache flecked with grey, his brown eyes darting over Ford’s face, as though he was trying to read what he was about to say next on his detective’s features. He found it, his gaze hardening, his voice a harsh whisper. ‘Malcolm, please. Just hear me out. You don’t like it, then report me, but at least hear me out first.’

  And that was when Ford saw something he had never seen before in his boss. Something he had assumed was for lesser mortals like himself and Troughton.

  Doubt.

  He followed Doyle to his office, and took a seat when told to do so. Doyle sat heavily behind his desk then leant to the side, his balding head glinting in the overhead strip lights. There was the sound of a drawer opening, soft clinking, then Doyle reappeared, the effort of bending over putting some colour back
into his pallid complexion.

  He didn’t ask, just poured two fingers of whisky into each glass and slid one to Ford. Almost on instinct, Ford lifted it to his nose, felt the peaty tang of Laphroaig bite at his nostrils. ‘Very nice, sir,’ he lied. He had no tolerance for the acrid burn of peaty whiskies, preferring instead the warming smoothness of a Speyside malt. But today was not the day to be discussing whisky with his boss. Better to keep things calm. Bide his time. Try to find out what the hell was going on.

  Doyle raised his glass in silent toast, took a deep sip. He held it in front of him, swirling the amber liquid, staring into it as though it was a crystal ball. The silence dragged out, just long enough for Ford to start to feel uncomfortable. Eventually Doyle spoke. ‘They’re going to take it away from us, Malcolm,’ he said finally, his voice as acidic and bitter as the whisky he had just poured.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  Doyle looked at him, sorrow and anger in his eyes. ‘The case,’ he said. ‘You heard the chief. Special Branch are going to take over due to the political links. So they’re going to blunder around, focus on Helen Russell’s past, do everything they can to make Ferguson feel reassured and keep the press happy. And in the meantime, other lines of enquiry are going to be left to die.’

  Ford squirmed in his seat, felt a sudden urge to sip the whisky. ‘Yes, sir, but—’

  ‘But what?’ Doyle spat, his voice low with anger. ‘This is our fucking case. There are two victims here, and I’ll be damned if the last major inquiry I work on is a fuck-up that is handed over to the big boys because us local yokels are too thick to work it.’

  Ford said nothing, trying to process this new information. He hadn’t known Doyle was retiring. As far as he knew, no one did. He was a lifer, a policeman who’d joined at eighteen and clawed his way up the ranks. The thought of him not being on the job raised fresh doubt in Ford’s mind. Was it time to take the hint? To get out while he could?