No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

‘Mostly,’ Ford said. ‘Got to be on hand to take my telling-off if needed, though.’

  ‘Arse-covering bastards,’ Fraser said, draining his coffee. He straightened up, the first subtle indicator that he was winding the conversation up. He reached into his pocket, produced a business card, wrote on the back of it, then slid it towards Ford. ‘You’ve got my work number already,’ he said, ‘but this is my personal number. If you need anything, call me. I’ll be in touch later today with an update.’

  Oily unease curled its way down Ford’s spine. ‘Update on what? What do you think you’re going to do? Look, I agreed to meet you because Doyle asked me to. But if you think I’m going to let you just charge into this and . . .’

  Fraser raised his hand, and Ford spotted the calluses that ran along the base of his fingers like an uneven wall. Weightlifter. ‘Easy, DCI Ford,’ he said, with a brief smile. ‘I don’t intend to make waves, but I do have a stake in this. I’m just going to talk to a few people. You said yourself you won’t know if there are any links between the two victims because Special Branch won’t let you near it. I’ll ask around, see what I can find, let you know what I come up with.’

  ‘Why?’ Ford asked. ‘Why are you doing this? And why didn’t you report your concerns officially as a former officer? What went down with you and this Hughes character?’

  Something flitted across Fraser’s eyes, dark and predatory. It made Ford suddenly conscious of what an imposing figure he was.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve got my reasons, not all of them professional,’ Fraser said. ‘Good to meet you, DCI Ford. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘I could make this official myself,’ Ford said, freezing Fraser as he rose. ‘Hell, after what you’ve just said, I should make it official. Take you in, get a statement on the record.’

  Fraser stood to his full height. ‘You could,’ he agreed. ‘But you won’t. You did this as a favour to your boss, I appreciate that. But if you report this, you’ll have to explain how you found me, because the last thing I’m going to do is come forward voluntarily, which means exposing your boss. And yourself.’ He looked up briefly, out into the street beyond. He placed his hands on the table. ‘Look, chase up what I’ve told you, if you can. If it looks like it’s leading somewhere solid, you have my word I’ll give you a statement on the record. Believe it or not, I want whoever did this caught as much as you do.’

  Ford stood slowly, felt a twinge of pain in his knee. ‘Okay,’ he said, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. ‘This is between us and Doyle. For now. But no fucking around, Fraser. You’re not a police officer any more. That’s my job.’

  Fraser gave a wistful smile, extended his hand. They shook, then Fraser left without saying another word, picking his way through the tables with an agility that belied his size.

  Ford watched him go, wondering what he was about to do, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

  CHAPTER 43

  The ministerial car swept into Randolphfield just after ten a.m., Doyle standing beside Chief Constable Guthrie, who was doing his best impression of a waxwork dummy dressed as a policeman – back ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead.

  He was moving before the car even stopped, stepping forward and waiting as the back door swung open. A tall, lithe man with ash-blond hair unfolded himself from the back of the car, smoothing his tie into place as he straightened, fixing his gaze on the chief. He strode forward, hand out, even as the other two occupants of the car got out.

  ‘Chief Constable,’ the man said, the faintest echo of the west coast in his tone. ‘Maxwell Higgins. I’m Mr Ferguson’s senior special adviser.’ He stepped to the side, clearing a path for the other members of the party. ‘Of course you know Mr Ferguson, and this is Lucy Mitchell, who is chief of staff to the First Minister, and also leads our communications department.’

  Panic flashed across Guthrie’s face at the mention of the First Minister, the severity of the situation suddenly underlined. To his credit, he recovered quickly and offered enthusiastic handshakes, welcoming Ferguson and Mitchell with all the warmth he could muster. Doyle flinched at the scene. The chief had been hired because he was a grey man, good with numbers and unlikely to rock the boat, characteristics that shone in the lack of social ease he displayed.

  Guthrie introduced the three to Doyle, who received the perfunctory handshakes and murmured greetings before they turned their attention back to the chief. Message received: he was only a lackey, not important to them. Doyle didn’t mind. He was in no rush to be useful, especially as, when he was, it would be as a scapegoat.

  He thought briefly of Ford, of the wisdom of sending him to meet Fraser. The chief would explode if he found out. It ran contrary to every procedure in the book and every instinct Ford had developed over his long career. But what could he do when Lachlan Jameson asked for a favour? And, besides, if they were going to use him and his DCI to take the blame for the failings in the case, why not see if they could get a result through other means?

  Guthrie bustled them into the building, leading them to a conference room that had been set up for the justice secretary’s visit with refreshments and a laptop hooked up to a projector, a lectern at the head of the table. Doyle didn’t think they were going to like the presentation Guthrie had made him prepare, and found he didn’t care. They were here to get the facts of the case, make it look like Ferguson was fully up to speed and in control. And while it was unusual for a special adviser, who was effectively a member of the minister’s political party and made suggestions accordingly, and the First Minister’s right-hand woman to be privy to such a confidential briefing, Guthrie had insisted they be vetted and approved to hear the facts.

  Fine. Doyle would get him up to speed. And fact one was that murder wasn’t pretty.

  He waited until they were settled, tuned out Guthrie as he made his opening comments – all the usual clichés about the team working well together, following firm lines of enquiry, solid police work and good progress. His ears pricked up when he heard the mention of Special Branch now being involved due to Helen Russell’s political links and the tattoo on Billy Griffin’s chest.

  ‘. . . and I think that’s a good point to hand you over to Superintendent Doyle,’ Guthrie said, with a smile, to the minister. Ferguson, a small squat man with wiry hair slicked tight to his skull and a double chin that rubbed on his shirt collar, gave a nod, jowls quivering. ‘Please, Superintendent Doyle,’ he said, his accent clipped and Highland. Inverness, maybe.

  Doyle stood up, walked to the lectern at the far end of the table, opposite Ferguson. He flicked a button on the small panel that lay there, the soft whine of a motor filling the room as the blinds swivelled shut and the projector flared into life.

  ‘As of this morning, we have had three murders within five miles of each other.’ He tapped a key on the laptop, a slide showing an aerial view of Stirling and the surrounding area with three large Xs marking the crime scenes dotted across it. He looked at it for a moment, pondered. Christ, but they were close. ‘The first body was discovered at approximately six twenty-two a.m. by a dog-walker in the grounds of Cowane’s Hospital. The victim was found to have been severely beaten before death, and badly mutilated.’ He paused, looked at his visitors. Of the three, Mitchell was the only one who looked like she was taking anything in. The other two were braced in their chairs, unease tightening their faces. He felt a twinge of admiration for Mitchell, then wondered if her attitude was based on the fact that she didn’t know what was coming next.

  Too bad. Just the facts.

  He hit the keyboard again, the next slide jumping onto the screen. Heard sharp intakes of breath from around the room. ‘As you know, the victim, William Griffin, was also decapitated.’ He had spared them the worst of it, left out the pictures of the body. But this was bad enough. There was something about the image of the metal spike, the head removed, a streak of gore running down it, that haunted Doyle. He was glad the others felt it too.

  ‘The victim’s head
was mounted on this spike, and left at the door of the Holy Rude. He was also found to have had a rat stuffed into his mouth. From the damage to his tongue, cheeks and interior of his mouth, the pathologist has suggested the animal may have been alive when it was inserted.’

  Doyle heard a groan, looked up to see Higgins cough into a handkerchief, his face drawn. Ferguson looked at him with bored disgust, while Mitchell kept her eyes trained straight ahead, her hands clasped around a pen.

  Doyle flicked to the next slide, took them through the discovery of Helen Russell at the hotel on the grounds of the uni. He hurried through the facts, not wanting to give Ferguson the chance to start asking about the news report that had been sent from the scene.

  ‘Finally,’ he said, flicking to the last slide, a nondescript shot of a small tent erected in the car park of Valley FM, a white-suited SOCO wraith-like in the foreground, ‘we received a call at two eleven this morning, reporting the discovery of a body at the premises of Valley FM, a local radio station. As with the first victim, this body had been severely mutilated and, again, decapitated. We’ve identified the victim as a Matthew Evans, an employee of the station.’

  Higgins’s wavering voice floated from the gloom. ‘And the, ah, the head. Was it, eh, mounted as the first victim’s was?’

  Good question. ‘Not specifically, no,’ Doyle said. ‘But it was left on the roof of a car, which could be deemed to be displaying it in another fashion.’ He went on, detailing the steps taken, the officers canvassing the areas, checking for links between the three victims, and finished with an update on the handover to Special Branch.

  Ferguson spoke first, shifting his bulk in his chair and wrapping blunt, chubby fingers around a glass of water in front of him. ‘The investigating officer who was initially involved in these enquiries, DCI Ford. How would you rate his performance in this matter, Superintendent?’

  Doyle’s gaze hardened on Ferguson. Prick. Forget the fact that three people had been murdered, probably by one nut job, who was still out there. Let’s play the blame game. Thank Christ he was retiring. ‘DCI Ford is an exemplary officer, sir,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the soft pink flesh that spilt over Ferguson’s collar. ‘He has worked these cases to the best of his ability, in the face of extreme resource pressure and the demands of the press.’

  Mitchell stirred in her seat, scrawled a note even as Guthrie fired Doyle a look filled with warning. Rein it in, that look said.

  Doyle didn’t care. Just the facts, after all.

  ‘Hm, well, thank you, Superintendent. I’d like to speak to DCI Ford if possible. Where is he at the moment?’

  Doyle felt heat in his cheeks, hoped it didn’t show. ‘DCI Ford is preparing the last of the case notes for Special Branch and assigning officers to support them,’ he said, ignoring the cold glare from Guthrie.

  ‘Quite so,’ Ferguson said. ‘Well, thank you, Superintendent. I wonder if you could show Maxwell and Lucy where they might find the canteen and get a little fresh air. I daresay they need it after that, and I want a word with your chief in private.’

  Higgins and Guthrie exchanged worried glances, Higgins speaking first. ‘Ah, Mr Ferguson, I’m sure it would be more beneficial if I—’

  ‘Nonsense, Maxwell,’ Ferguson snapped, with the impatience of a man not used to being questioned. ‘I just need a quick word with Peter, that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about.’

  Higgins opened his mouth, closed it. Checked a watch that seemed too large for his wrist. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘We have the press conference at noon. Shall we meet you back here at a quarter to for a briefing?’

  ‘Ideal,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now go on. Peter and I need to have a chat.’

  Doyle led them out of the room, turned back to see Ferguson leaning close to Guthrie, who looked more like a waxwork than ever, especially with the grey pallor of his skin. He caught his boss’s gaze for just a second, saw the desperation of a man who knew he was about to get a world-class bollocking.

  He closed the door and left them to it. Decided today wasn’t such a bad day after all.

  CHAPTER 44

  It hadn’t taken long for Connor to find the Russells’ home address, taken even less time to bluff his way into the house with some vague talk of follow-up queries and questions to ask. He had his Sentinel ID tucked in his back pocket in case Mr Russell asked for some form of formal-looking identification, but found he didn’t need it. The man just blinked at him for a moment then retreated back into the house, leaving Connor to follow. Down a narrow, dim hallway to the back of the house and a kitchen that looked out onto a garden every bit as neat and ordered as the one Connor had seen at the front. A decent plot of land, Connor thought, which fit with the seventies vibe he got from the row of bungalows on Munro Avenue. Nowadays, the gardens would be the size of postage stamps.

  Russell beckoned him to sit, then busied himself making coffee. He hadn’t asked what Connor took, just put a mug in front of him and retreated to his own chair at the opposite end of the table to watch him patiently. Waiting.

  Christopher Russell was clearly in shock. His eyes fell to the mug he cradled between his shovel-like hands. His expression was blank, apart from a small frown that creased the skin beneath the stubble on his head as he gently spun the mug in circles, the coffee sloshing against the sides. Occasionally, it would spill over and splash onto his hands. If it burnt him, he showed no sign of it.

  Connor considered. He didn’t want to go over the same ground as the police, thereby raising this man’s suspicions. But at the same time, he had to warm him up, not go straight to the question he wanted to ask. ‘Mr Russell, can you think of any reason why your wife would have been at or near the uni campus yesterday? Did she have any meetings there?’

  Russell looked up, as though he had forgotten Connor was there. The frown crinkled his brow now, as though Connor had spoken in a different language. Then he spoke, his voice soft and strangely high for such a big man. ‘No, I can’t think of any reason,’ he said. ‘Helen was meant to be in Edinburgh yesterday, at the Parliament. She had a reception with one of the MSPs, spokesman on culture, I think. Something to do with the plan to renovate the hospital at the top of the town.’

  ‘Cowane’s Hospital?’ Connor said, gripping his mug. There had been plans to renovate the building and its gardens, make it more of a tourist attraction than it currently was. But an issue with the funding had thrown the project into doubt. Not that any of that mattered to Connor. No, what mattered to him was the link to the first murder. ‘Was she due home last night, sir? Was that when you called to report her missing?’

  ‘Ah, no, no.’ Russell coughed. A kind of melancholy twisted his face, tears threatening. ‘She was due to stay over. I knew she wasn’t coming back.’ Something in his voice told Connor that he also knew what his wife would have been doing that night. Question was, did he know with whom?

  He shook himself. Forced himself not to get sidetracked. She was meant to be staying in Edinburgh. So how the hell had she ended up in Stirling? And then there was the question he really wanted to ask.

  ‘Mr Russell, when your wife was found, she had several items on her person, including a paperback novel. Was she a fan of Stephen King?’

  Russell blinked away whatever memory was gnawing at him, focused on Connor for what seemed like the first time. ‘What? No. Helen hated that sort of gory stuff. Hell, she almost puked up her dinner the first time I flicked on an episode of Game of Thrones in front of her. What book was it? Why did she have it?’

  ‘It was Misery, sir. It wasn’t yours?’

  Anger sharpened Russell’s gaze. Finally, amid the chaos of his wife’s death, there was something he could channel his fury at. ‘Of course it wasn’t mine, I’ve never read the damn book. Look, what is all this about, Detective . . .?’

  ‘Anderson,’ Connor said, the name plucked from the air, the lie coming out smooth and easy. ‘I’m sorry, I know it sounds odd, but sometimes it’s the small details that
yield results. And I’m trying to establish a picture of your wife’s movements and her life before her, ah—’

  ‘She was a whore,’ Russell said suddenly, the words as dark and bitter as the coffee he had served. ‘I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but she was, Mr Anderson. I knew she was in Edinburgh overnight for a reason other than party business. That book was probably a gift from whoever she was shagging.’

  ‘And you have no idea who she might have been with?’ He could see his time with Russell was coming to an end, the window closing. Might as well push it. ‘Sir, does the name Jonny Hughes mean anything to you? Did your wife ever mention that name or Belfast at all?’

  ‘No, but if he’s who she was fucking, why would she tell me?’ Russell said, looking down at the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know who it was, and I don’t even know if she was in Edinburgh that night. She told me she was, but she could have been anywhere. Hell, they might have been at that hotel at the uni, right under my nose. And Belfast, fuck knows.’

  He shook his head slowly, the pale sunlight bouncing off his scalp. Connor watched him, not sure what else to say, his mind racing with questions. Did the police know any of this? He’d assumed they’d checked the CCTV at the hotel for signs of Helen Russell: had they found any? And then there was the book. His last doubts were gone. Whatever was going on, that book was a message to him.

  But from whom?

  ‘Mr Russell, thank you for your time. I should be going.’ Connor rose from the table, his chair squealing across the cold ceramic tiles in protest. Russell looked up at him, the anger gone, replaced by shocked bewilderment. He might have thought his wife was a whore, but she was still his wife. And someone had killed her, then dumped her like a piece of meat.

  But who, and why?

  He rose, mirroring Connor, then gestured to the hallway. Connor took the lead, aware of Russell’s bulk behind him. He was halfway to the door when a figure appeared in the frosted glass and the bell rang.