No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  Simon considered his wine glass, his pose just casual enough to tell Connor it was practised. I’m a big thinker with a taste for the finer things in life, it said. He had to swallow a bubble of laughter.

  ‘Any word back from your contact about Griffin’s movements?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Connor said, reaching for his phone on a reflex. Duncan MacKenzie hadn’t been pleased with the call from Connor, but after some fatherly warnings about looking after his ‘wee girl’ he’d agreed to look into Billy Griffin for him. If he had been working something illegal anywhere in Central Scotland, MacKenzie would be the man to find it.

  But, so far, nothing.

  ‘In that case, I suggest we go to the pub,’ Simon said, smiling.

  Connor looked at his friend sitting there, waiting. Almost said something, then bit back the words. It was a test. Plain and simple. And he’d almost missed it.

  Sloppy, Connor, he thought. Sloppy. And right now, sloppy is the last thing you need.

  He reached for the gun, eyes falling on the waiter’s mate on the table. Felt the tug of recognition, something he was almost seeing. ‘Good plan,’ he said, standing. ‘Get out, see the sights. If someone’s after me, they’re less likely to make a move in a public area. Everything we’ve seen so far shows they like to work in private. And with you there, we’re more likely to spot anyone watching us.’

  Simon clapped his hand softly against the wine glass, smile widening, finally hitting his eyes. ‘Very good,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘Just give me a minute to change my shirt and we’ll get going.’ He made his way to the hall, went into the spare bedroom.

  Connor cleared the glasses, thoughts turning back to what was bothering him. Something about what Simon had said? Something about the waiter’s mate he had used on the wine?

  He was startled from his thoughts by his phone buzzing on the table. He reached for it, felt a twinge of guilt when he saw the caller ID. Thought about ignoring it, knew that was a bad idea. Hit answer. ‘Hello, Jen,’ he said, forcing an enthusiasm he didn’t feel into his voice.

  ‘Hi, Connor, how you doing? You recovered after yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘Sorry about that, stupid mistake not to eat after a weights session like that.’

  ‘Aye, stupid,’ she said, her tone telling him he was fooling no one. ‘If you’re feeling better, you up to anything tonight?’

  He looked around at the sound of a floorboard creaking, saw Simon step back into the room, a fresh T-shirt hanging off his sinewy frame. ‘Actually, I’m just heading out to the pub. Fancy joining us? I’ve got someone here who I think you’d like to meet.’

  CHAPTER 57

  The headline seemed to scream from the screen, a white-hot outrage that seared his eyes and made his nerves quiver and sing, like the over-tightened string of a guitar.

  ‘Justice secretary linked to Stirling murder victim,’ the caption read, below images of the press conference, reporters surging forward as Blake asked her question, the screen flaring bright as every flash popped, trying to catch the moment in all its failed glory.

  He had known using Sneddon was a risk when he was approached with the idea. Anyone who met him could practically smell the desperation bleeding from his pores, the need to please, to ingratiate, to make himself indispensable. But he had allowed himself to be convinced, trusting those advising him that they knew what they were talking about.

  And Sneddon had proved how wrong he was when he opened his mouth to parrot the lines he had been given like a good little puppet. He shuddered with embarrassment at the memory. A fucking baseball bat would have been more subtle.

  And then, just to complete the cluster-fuck, Blake had pushed her way into the press conference with the one inference he had worked so hard to keep everyone from drawing.

  So you knew her prior to this, sir? You don’t recall seeing her, so you would have recognized her if you had?

  He fought the almost irresistible urge to swipe the computer from his desk as the anger boiled up: a wave of acid at the back of his throat. He clamped his hands under the desk and pressed up, as though trying to lift it, feeling his muscles ache with the effort. All he had to do was stand up, extend his arms and flip the table. Grab his chair and throw it through the glass wall that faced into the rest of the office, sweep up a shard of broken glass as he stepped through and then . . .

  He closed his eyes, the after-image of that fucking headline dancing across the darkness. Forced himself to breathe, relax.

  Think.

  He opened his eyes, looked again at the insult. His fury slowly abated, replaced by a cold hatred that he seized on and nurtured as he fed it the facts.

  So they knew there was a link. So what? Politicians had meetings with each other all the time: it was the nature of the business. A Nationalist minister meeting a Unionist councillor was perfectly normal. Routine, even. It could be explained.

  Evans, on the other hand, was a complication. He admitted to a dark elation when he learnt what the caller had done, hoped that the little prick had been made to suffer before the end, just as he had asked for Griffin to suffer. After all, betrayal deserved to be repaid with pain. But now, with this fucking bitch Blake setting the press pack salivating, it felt like an indulgence, an unnecessary risk that only increased the chance of exposure.

  And yet . . .

  If everyone was looking at Russell, no one was looking at Evans. At the moment, the official theory was that, as a local media personality with form on a bigger stage, he had attracted the attention of the killer. Which was true. What no one knew, what he could not afford anyone to know, was why he had attracted the killer’s attention.

  The sound of his intercom startled him from his thoughts. He reached for it, unnerved to see his hand was not steady. ‘Yes, Margaret, what is it?’

  ‘Ah, Ms Mitchell is calling for you, says you’ll know what it’s about.’

  He shot a poisonous glance at the door. Stupid, senile old bitch. He should have got rid of her when her eyes started to fail. She was more trouble than she was worth. But, no. She had been with him from the beginning. And her dedication deserved – no, demanded – his loyalty.

  He closed his eyes, concentrated on keeping his voice even. No point in delaying the inevitable. ‘Put her through, will you?’

  The clunk of a call being connected, Mitchell’s voice on the line. He listened, eyes still closed, as she unravelled his world around him. He thought of hanging up, just slamming the phone down and walking away from it all. But that would be the coward’s way out. The way of Evans or Griffin. No. He had come too far, worked too hard, to fail now.

  He turned his attention back to the call, listened to the forced calm of Mitchell’s voice. And, as he did, he came to a decision. It was one he could live with. After all, what was one less journalist in the world?

  CHAPTER 58

  Connor and Simon arrived before Jen and headed to the bar to order a drink. They had decided to meet at the Settle Inn, a small pub about five minutes from the Castle, its whitewashed walls glowing softly in the dwindling light. A sign above the bar boasted that it was the ‘auldest pub in Stirling’, dating back to 1733. Connor wasn’t sure about that, but the stonework looked like it could pass the test, one wall of the pub being a mosaic of time-stained sandstone and granite that dwarfed a small wood burner set into the fireplace. The furnishing reminded him of his grandfather’s club, long, heavily varnished benches and small circular tables surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs.

  They found a place at the bar and stood shoulder to shoulder, the sounds of a folk band tuning their instruments in the back room echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling and drifting back to them. Simon looked around with vague amusement.

  ‘What?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just that, for a man who drives a flash car and is obviously doing all right for himself, you’ve got a taste for the, ah, rustic.’

  Connor laughed. It was
true. Despite the flat and the car, neither of which he would have been able to afford without the money his mother had left him, he never felt comfortable with either those who were obviously wealthy or the world they lived in. He supposed it was why he was so good at his job: the hotels, offices and parliaments to which he escorted clients had a rarefied air of opulence that set him on edge. And because he was never totally at ease, he was always alert, watching. Waiting. Simon was right, he preferred places like this, places that reminded him of his grandfather and the world he had lived in. But that wasn’t the reason he had chosen this place tonight.

  Not that Simon needed to know.

  They finally caught the eye of a barman who was definitely making a brave attempt at being the auldest barman in Stirling. He pulled their pints with hands that were warped and gnarled with arthritis, shirt-sleeves rolled up to expose twig-thin arms dotted with a patchwork of liver spots and cheap tattoos.

  ‘Six pund aiktie,’ he said, his voice as rough as his beard, as he placed the second pint of Guinness on the bar towel in front of Simon. Connor reached for his wallet, felt Simon jostle him with an elbow.

  ‘Catch yersel’ on,’ he said. ‘I’m getting this one, least I can do.’ He pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket, opened it to reveal a thick wad of notes and pulled a tenner from the sheaf. Connor’s eyes lingered on it, his thoughts lost, until Simon spoke, breaking the spell. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass and turning to lean on the bar.

  ‘Aye, cheers,’ Connor replied, lifting his own glass, his thoughts filled with waiter’s mates and Simon’s wallet.

  He took a swig of his pint, the cool velvet of the Guinness sticking to the back of his throat. He looked across the pub, saw nothing that appeared to be a threat. Simon was right: in a cramped, public place like this, a professional wouldn’t dream of taking a shot at him.

  And Connor was convinced that whoever he was dealing with was a professional.

  The pub door opened and Jen walked in, glancing around. He raised his pint to her in greeting, saw her smile even as her eyes jumped from him to Simon. ‘Evening,’ he said, as she approached. ‘Thanks for coming. Jen, this is Simon McCartney, an old, ah, friend, from Northern Ireland. Simon, this is Jen. And before you say it, she’s too good for you.’

  Simon laughed, punched Connor in the shoulder, just hard enough to tell him it was a cheap shot.

  ‘So, you going to tell me all about the mystery man here?’ Jen asked.

  ‘I can, but I may have to kill you after,’ he said, widening his smile and squaring his shoulders. In that moment, he felt bad for his previous remark. He was only teasing, but he knew Simon liked the woman he had just met. ‘If you two are going to talk about me, I don’t want to hear it,’ he said. ‘Listen, go and get a table, talk behind my back, and I’ll get you a drink, Jen. Same as the other night? Vodka tonic?’

  She nodded, her hair playing in the light, turning gold. Connor knew it would feel like cool silk running through his fingers. ‘Yeah, please,’ she said. ‘Come on, Simon.’

  They moved off, dodging customers and finding a small table next to the fireplace. Connor turned back to the bar, caught the old man’s rheumy gaze and ordered. Looked back at Simon and Jen as he waited, watching as they got to know each other, the stifled, defensive body language, Jen’s arms crossed over her chest as she leant on the table slightly, Simon’s legs crossed at the ankles as he leant away, giving her all the space she needed. But, still, they seemed to be getting on. They were holding eye contact and, occasionally, Connor saw a flash of Jen’s white teeth.

  ‘Three twenny, pal,’ the old man said.

  Connor fished into his back pocket for his wallet, drew it out. Opened it and reached his fingers in for a note . . .

  A note.

  Realization flooded through him, froze him to the spot as random thoughts collided and connected in his mind. He felt more than saw the old man shuffle on his feet, trying to attract his attention. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, fishing out a fiver. ‘Keep the change.’

  The barman cracked something that might once have been called a smile, then beetled back to the till. Connor watched him go, forced himself to follow the path his mind was trying to take him down, see if it was a dead end. It wasn’t.

  He pulled out his phone, took a long swig from his pint to kill some time. Opened the browser, found what he was looking for. Felt a punch swing into his guts and drive the air from his lungs as he saw what he didn’t want to see, what he had desperately hoped wasn’t there.

  He clicked the phone off, pocketed it. Picked up Jen’s drink, took another gulp of his own. Bitter.

  He made his way back to the table, took a seat between Simon and Jen, who were sitting opposite each other. ‘So,’ he said, putting the glasses down gently, ‘what nasty lies has he been telling you about me?’

  Jen smiled, raised her glass in thanks. ‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Actually, he says you’re the perfect gentleman, so I know he’s talking shit.’

  Connor pulled his lips back from his teeth in what he hoped was a vague approximation of a smile. ‘Aye, that’s our Simon, always with the bullshit.’

  He saw confusion flash across Simon’s face, replaced by a bashful smile. ‘Only bullshit here is what line you used to get Jen to talk to you,’ he said. ‘How did you meet this lunk anyway?’

  It was a pointless question: Connor had told Simon all about Jen and her background on the way to the pub.

  They bandied small-talk for a few minutes, Simon and Connor falling into the old act of trading insults. Jen seemed to enjoy the routine, relaxing into the conversation as they spoke.

  ‘Right,’ Simon said, when they hit a lull. ‘I’m for the toilet, then a top-up. You both want the same?’

  Jen considered her glass. ‘Please, but I’m only having one more after this, got an early shift tomorrow.’

  Simon smiled. ‘Never a good thing. Connor?’

  Connor stared at him, let the mask slip for just a moment. Saw Simon flinch. ‘Aye, a pint, please,’ he said.

  ‘Grand. I’ll nip to the toilet and sort that out. Where would they . . .?’

  Connor gave him directions, watch his friend stalk off. Counted to twenty in his head, slowly, nodding along to whatever Jen was saying. Then he stood up. ‘You be okay for a minute?’ he said. ‘Sorry, Jen, but Simon’s put the idea in my head now.’

  She looked at him, cocking her head to the side and giving him a mischievous smile. ‘And I thought it was only women who went to the toilets in pairs,’ she said. ‘Aye, on you go, but no measuring contests, okay?’

  ‘No promises,’ he said.

  He got to the toilet a moment later, stood outside the door, breathing heavily. Steadied himself, then walked in. It was a basic toilet, one long trough running along its length, a row of sinks opposite. Simon was at the far end, his back to the cubicles, a young guy who didn’t look old enough to shave washing his hands. Connor straightened to his full height as he passed, gave the kid the cold stare in the mirror. He got the message, shutting off the tap and grabbing a wad of green-paper towels to dry his hands.

  Simon smiled at Connor. ‘Nice girl,’ he said, as he finished up. ‘Don’t know what she sees in you, like, but . . .’

  Connor grabbed him by the shirt, swung him round and barrelled him into a cubicle, the slam of the door like a gunshot. He kept going, driving the back of Simon’s legs into the toilet, forcing him into the cold porcelain of the wall.

  ‘Connor, man, what the fuck?’ Simon gasped.

  Connor felt a bitter sorrow rippling through his head in cramping waves, Jonny Hughes’s voice a taunting whisper in his mind: I know people who tell me things. So when I asked about you, they told me all sorts of interesting stories.

  ‘How long have you been here, Simon?’ Connor hissed. ‘You said you got the fourteen forty-five flight from City, but that’s bullshit, isn’t it?’

  Simon’s eyes widened, the colour draining from his face. He drop
ped his head, took a deep breath, muttered something.

  ‘What was that? I didn’t—’

  Connor almost didn’t see it coming. Simon’s arms flashed up, as though he was surrendering, then he brought his fists down on Connor’s wrists. Bright pain exploded in Connor’s arms, crawling all the way up to his shoulders. Involuntarily, he eased his grip and Simon lashed out, driving a hard right into Connor’s exposed armpit. He grunted, twisting to the side, Simon writhing and trying to get free by using his momentum against Connor.

  ‘Fucking quit it!’ Connor roared. He straightened up, ignoring the pain in his arms, grabbed Simon by the shoulders and squeezed, forcing him down, buckling his knees with the sheer force of his mass. ‘I just checked the flight times,’ he panted, arms quivering. ‘Nice try, but your fucking flight was delayed by ten minutes, so there’s no fucking way you got off the plane, had enough time to buy a coffee and be lounging about waiting by the time I got there. So how long have you been here, Simon? Who sent you?’

  ‘Fuck, man,’ Simon replied, bucking up as hard as he could and pushing Connor back. He stared at him, cold defiance in his eyes. ‘You no’ think I was maybe at the front of the plane, managed to get away ahead of the crowd?’

  Connor sneered. ‘With that fucking waiter’s mate you were carrying? In hand luggage only? No fucking way, pal. Even if you flashed your ID, no way they’re letting you on board. And then there’s your fucking wallet. Got a little look at the bar. Full of Scottish notes, not an Ulster Banker among them. So last time, Simon. How long have you been here? And who fucking sent you? Was it Hughes? His uncle? Were you working for them the whole time?’

  Simon’s eyes flashed with disgust. He took a half-step forward, fists bunching. ‘Fuck you, Connor,’ he said. ‘After all the shit we pulled to cover up what you did, you think I was working with those wankers? Fine. So I’ve been here for a couple of days. Headed over the moment they found that wee scrote at the church. But it’s not what you think, promise.’