Connor froze, the glass halfway to his lips. He lunged forward, barging Simon out of the way, ignoring his curses as wine sloshed onto his T-shirt. Suddenly, he understood what was bothering him. What he had seen on Sneddon’s screen but not recognized.
Until now.
He fished his phone out, opened his own email, found the message he had made Sneddon send him, the one that had all his research attached. Clicked on the records of the Electoral Commission from the time of the town-hall tour and scanned down until he found what he was looking for.
The world stopped. Simon called him from the end of a long corridor. Far away. Unimportant. All he could hear was the hammering of his heart in his ears, his pulse making his vision brighten and expand in time with his heartbeat.
He tore his eyes from the screen, looked at Simon, the questions and doubts tumbling through his mind as he felt his grip tighten on the glass.
‘Jesus, Connor, you okay? You look like you’ve shit a brick, big lad . . .’
Connor ignored him, flicked through his contacts. Found the number he needed. The number he had made a point of finding the first day he had met Malcolm Ford.
‘Superintendent Doyle? This is Connor Fraser. I’m sorry for contacting you like this. But I have a question, sir. You told DCI Ford that you served with my boss in the army. Could you tell me where that was, please? It’s vital to the case and my employer.’
The answer Connor had feared slithered down the line, stabbing into his ear and ripping through his mind like a blade. He mumbled a thank-you, then ended the call, the phone skittering across the table as he tossed it with a numb hand.
‘Connor, what the fuck . . .?’
He looked up at Simon, at the man he had thought was his friend. The man he had seen wield a wicked-looking knife earlier in the evening. The man who might have been lying to him all along.
He stood, his legs heavy, adrenalin beginning to spark and crackle through his veins. It was like a short-sighted man putting on glasses for the first time, the world jumping from soft focus to brutal, sharp-edged detail as he finally saw everything. He took in Simon’s relaxed posture, saw his shoulders and jaw tighten with dawning unease, his pupils dilating and his breath deepening as he readied himself for what was coming next.
‘Connor,’ he said, rising now, holding an arm out. ‘Big lad, what’s going on? What was that all about just now?’
‘The rat,’ Connor said, feeling a smile draw his lips tight. ‘Did you know they found a rat stuffed into Billy Griffin’s mouth? I thought it was a message, that maybe he was traitor, a rat, who had been silenced. Is that what you are, Simon? A rat? A traitor?’
Simon’s mouth fell open as though he had been slapped. ‘Connor, what the fuck are you talking about? I thought we were past this. I’m sorry I lied to you, but God’s truth, Lachlan called me over here to keep an eye on you when it all kicked off here. What the fuck are you . . .’
‘The rat,’ Connor said again, as though Simon hadn’t spoken. He was focusing on the angle of Simon’s lower jaw, just below the ear. It was where he would hit him first if he had to. He prayed he was wrong. Prayed he wouldn’t need to.
‘It was a message, just not the one everyone thought it was. See, it was a calling card. Which leaves me with only one question, Simon.’
‘What? Connor, Jesus, what . . .’
‘Are you really my friend? Or are you just another rat working for him?’
CHAPTER 69
He felt no surprise when the call came, had been expecting it since the moment his client had told him about the press conference and that little prick Sneddon insinuating a link between Ferguson and Russell.
The client had been panicked, on the verge of hysteria. What would they do? All Sneddon had was insinuation and conjecture at the moment, but that was more than enough for most members of the press. They would start digging into all of it. Find out about Russell, her past, her links with Billy Griffin. It would be a disaster, the apocalypse. Not just for them but for the movement as a whole. After all, how could any Nationalist be trusted ever again after it emerged that their own justice secretary had secretly been a Unionist sympathizer?
He made soothing noises into the phone, more to silence the pathetic mewling rather than to offer any real comfort. The truth was, he didn’t really care what this meant for his client or their petty political aspirations. He had known this was a possibility since the moment he had agreed to this job. He had taken steps to avoid this outcome but, still, the thought of this conclusion, so tempting and alluring, had played on his thoughts, filled his imagination in quiet moments.
And now here it was.
He reached for the phone, let it ring for a moment. Then took a breath. Answered.
‘Connor. I thought I might get a call from you. How are things in Stirling? You making the most of your time off?’
He smiled at the predictable response, the venom and fury injected into Fraser’s voice, which was normally so quiet and even, like a slow-flowing stream. He felt a surge of satisfaction. If nothing else, he had got under Connor Fraser’s cool façade, antagonized the man behind the veneer.
And, after all, wasn’t that the point?
He waited until the fury had abated. ‘You know, if you feel that way, perhaps we should meet, discuss all this. I hear there are some sights to see around the castle and the cemetery, so how about we meet there? . . . Yes, where the first body was found. Say an hour?’
He clicked off the phone, rocked back in his chair. He didn’t need the hour, was a lot closer than Connor or Simon would have guessed.
But he needed the time.
He called the number from memory, didn’t have to wait long for the reply. And why should he? After all, this call was going to make his client’s day.
CHAPTER 70
Connor pulled into a parking space across the road from Allan’s Primary School, a short walk down the hill from Cowane’s Hospital and the Old Town Cemetery. He killed the engine and looked across at Simon, who was staring back at him.
The confrontation had been inevitable, as Simon had continued to insist that Lachlan Jameson had summoned him only to keep a surreptitious eye on Connor when the bodies had started to pile up in Stirling, and Connor had been looking for a favour. Connor had continued to dismiss that explanation as bullshit, both men’s voices rising with their anger.
‘Tell me the fucking truth, Simon,’ Connor had hissed, ‘or I swear to fuck I’ll make you eat that fucking glass.’
‘Away tae fuck,’ Simon replied, his voice a harsh rasp. ‘I am telling you the truth. I came because Lachlan asked me to keep an eye on you. Thought you needed back-up. I swear. So get it done, choke me out, ’cause my answer’s not going to change.’
Connor gave a grunt of frustration and forced his shoulders to ease. Grabbed the laptop and spun it round. ‘So if that’s true, what the fuck does this mean?’
Simon’s eyes darted between Connor and the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
It was the email Sneddon had sent, detailing the expenses and accounts of those involved in the independence roadshow debates. When he was checking the Electoral Commission’s spending records of the parties for accommodation and looking for crossovers, he had stumbled over something else. A seemingly innocuous line in the accounts that referred to payments made for ‘travel and transportation costs’ for Ferguson as he travelled around the country. Deprived of his ministerial car and entourage, he’d been forced to rely on private means to get around.
Private means that were provided by Sentinel Securities.
On one level, it made sense to Connor. With the debate becoming increasingly polarized and toxic, those involved had been looking for a little extra security and reassurance when travelling to meet the great unwashed. And Connor knew it was happening again now: with Brexit on everyone’s lips, there had been a surge in political clients looking for close protection experts to act as drivers and bodyguards when attending e
vents.
But there was something else, something that echoed in Connor’s mind the moment he had seen the company’s name in the records. A memory of his call with Jameson after the Benson job in Edinburgh.
‘Seems there’s been a murder in Stirling, not far from where you stay. Not a lot of detail at this stage, but sounds fairly grim. Body badly mutilated. Maybe you should come in to work after all. Might be quieter than home tonight.’
Body badly mutilated. How had Lachlan known? He had called before Ford’s first press conference, when all that had been available was the scant information Connor had seen in Donna Blake’s initial story: it’s a murder, and we don’t have a fucking clue.
It was possible that Jameson had called his pal Doyle for an off-the-record update, but why? Concern for Connor? Unlikely and, besides, Doyle had told him that he hadn’t asked for details of the case.
Then there was Jameson’s military service with Doyle. They had served together in the first Gulf War, in the 7th Armoured Brigade, a tank division also known by a more colourful nickname: the Desert Rats.
Rats. Just like the one that had been stuffed into Billy Griffin’s mouth.
Not a message. A calling card.
Simon had blinked up at Connor, nothing but confusion in his face. ‘Connor, honestly, man, you’ve got to believe me. He called me, said you might be in a bit of bother, asked me to come and keep a quiet eye on you, watch your back. Said he didn’t want to tell you as it would be like an insult – that you couldn’t look after yourself. Look, you’ve got to believe me, man.’
Connor wanted to believe Simon, but it didn’t make sense. The picture he had formed in his mind told him that Lachlan Jameson had a previous relationship with Ferguson, who had reached out to the ‘security and protection expert’ asking for help with his little blackmail problem. Killing wasn’t an issue: before forming Sentinel, Jameson had taken on private contracts; a little digging had told Connor they had attracted high fees and bloodshed. Wet work, they called it. And the intelligence was that Lachlan Jameson loved to get wet.
But if that was right, if Jameson was the killer, why had he called Simon in to watch Connor’s back? Why put him in touch with Doyle and, subsequently, Ford? And why, if he was trying to play this quietly, was he taunting Connor with a message from his past? A message he would have known demanded a response?
It was a question that had lingered unspoken between them on the drive back into town.
‘You got any idea what the fuck is going on here, Connor?’ Simon asked, as he stared up the hill. The night had made good on its threat, and rain tapped on the roof of the car, like the drumming of impatient fingers.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Connor said. ‘But why don’t we go and find out?’
CHAPTER 71
They split up at the Stirling Highland Hotel, Simon heading through the car park for the Back Walk so he could loop around the church and approach from the cemetery. It had been his idea, and Connor knew he was testing him – trust me to cover your rear. Connor had agreed: he wanted to believe in Simon and their friendship, but trust wasn’t the issue. If he came in from the rear, it split up him and Jameson, meaning Connor could deal with them individually rather than together. He felt a momentary pang of regret at leaving his gun with Paulie, then pushed it aside. A gun was a coward’s weapon, and this was better dealt with by hand.
He stopped at the gate to the Holy Rude, the rain-slicked cobbles gleaming in the streetlights. There was no sign of the police or the violence that had been committed there, which made sense – Stirling might have a history steeped in blood and violence, but tourists tended to prefer more romantic reminders than decapitated corpses and blood-stained grass.
He walked up to the gate slowly, felt no surprise that it was open. Stepped into the gloom, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the light, then moved up the curved lane, aware of the hedges to his left that led to the bowling green, which dated all the way back to the sixteenth century. He kept walking, following the path as it swept gently left, past the Holy Rude and towards the hospital.
As he approached, a shadow peeled itself from the darkness pooling around the building and stepped forward. Connor kept his eyes on Lachlan Jameson, stopping to force his boss to come to him and move away from the old stone steps that led up to the graveyard, buying Simon more time.
‘Ah, Connor,’ Jameson called, as though they had run into each other on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. ‘I must say, you picked a hell of a night for it.’
‘Why, Lachlan?’ Connor felt as though the rain should evaporate into steam as it touched him, boiled away by the rage that coursed through him. ‘Why kill those three people? And why drag me into it?’
Jameson smiled, a predatory leer Connor had never seen before. He shook his head as he stopped, Connor tensing as he reached into his pocket. ‘Business, dear boy,’ he said, as he held aloft another copy of the book he had used to torment him. ‘Merely business. A client came to me asking for a job to be done, a message to be sent. The means of sending that message was left to me. Judging by the reaction, it was definitely effective.’
Connor felt frustration blend with his anger, turning it into something darker, more feral. He itched to lunge forward, grab Jameson and squeeze the answers he wanted out of him. ‘But why the book? Why stir up all that shite with Jonny Hughes if you wanted to keep your part in it quiet? You should have known something like that would only make me look into all this. And you should also have known I’d work it out eventually.’
Jameson’s smile intensified, and Connor felt a trickle of unease that was only fuelled when the other man nodded with a gleeful chuckle. ‘Ah, Connor, you’re good, very good. Always have been. But you’re missing the big picture. After all, I never said how many clients I had, did I?’
Connor cursed his sloppiness even as he whirled to his left, a sudden blur of movement from the darkness snapping his focus away from Jameson’s attempt at distraction. Cold agony, as bright as a star, exploded in his leg and he lurched backwards, clutching his thigh and feeling the world sway as blood coated his hand.
Shock shattered his thoughts as his past stepped into the light, the knife gleaming. And suddenly he understood. Simon had been wrong. Someone else would understand the message of the book, someone else who knew what Jonny Hughes had done and how Connor had reacted.
‘’Bout ye, Connor?’ Amy Hughes asked, her smile mirroring Jameson’s. ‘Been a while. You’re looking well on it, though. Well, apart from that.’ She gestured towards him with the knife.
‘Fuck! Connor!’
Connor whirled, the world heaving and swaying as his head snapped right, just in time to see Simon race down the steps from the graveyard. Connor tried to call out, warn him, but it was too late. Focused on getting to his injured friend, Simon gave Jameson all the time he needed. He stepped into Simon’s path, driving a crashing fist into his cheek and sending him tumbling to the ground. Even over the static hiss of the rain, Connor heard the dry, twig-like snap of Simon’s jaw, saw the knuckle-dusters glint on Jameson’s hand like obscene jewels as he pulled back his fist and turned to face him.
‘Connor, meet one of my other clients, Amy Hughes. I believe you knew her husband, Jonny, had some dealing with him. Amy was very keen that I talk to you and Simon about that, and what happened the night you visited their home. And now here we all are.’
Connor smiled. ‘What happened? Marriage counselling not work out for you?’
‘Fuck you!’ Amy spat. ‘You cost us everything! Jonny was a fuck-up, but he loved me, made sure we were provided for. Then you came along and beat the fuck out of him over a cheap hoor, and that’s him. You fucking ruined him, made him look weak. No one wanted him to deal for them after that, said he was a fucking embarrassment. Weak. You fucking pig cunt!’
She lunged forward with the knife and Connor collapsed against the church wall, rain-slicked granite driving icy needles into his back and shoulders. He focused on the sudden chi
ll, tried to use it to clear his thoughts, calm the white noise of pain, confusion and rage.
‘You okay, Connor? Watch your step. Last thing we want is you slipping and breaking your neck. Been enough death here recently, hasn’t there?’
The knife rose slowly, flaring orange as it caught the glow from a streetlight overhead.
Connor braced himself against the wall, tried to draw strength from the ancient stone. ‘Come on, then,’ he hissed, dragging his gaze from her eyes, trying to focus through the growing fog in his mind. ‘I’ve not got all night, and this is getting fucking boring.’
‘Mr Take Charge, huh, Connor? I always liked that about you.’ A glance down at the knife. ‘Well, if you insist.’
Connor pushed off the wall as hard as he could when Amy lunged, using inertia to make up for the weakness in his leg. They collided in a tangle of limbs and fell to the cobbled ground, writhing. Connor’s leg was engulfed in agony as he jerked the wrong way, the sudden pain forcing another scream from him. He felt small, hard fingers scrabble across his face and twisted away, eyes searching desperately for the knife. He grabbed for it, felt Amy’s crazed strength behind the blade, inching it closer, closer, to his face.
He took another breath, tasted blood at the back of his throat, and gripped the arms that were quivering with the effort of driving the knife towards his face. He thought about letting go for an instant, the knife digging into the soft flesh under his chin, the blade slicing sideways and down to tear open his windpipe, blood and gristle splattering onto the cobbles. He could let it end with him. Let his blood be the last.
But then he looked to his side, saw Simon sprawled on the ground, Jameson looming over him. Simon, who had been manipulated as Connor had been, all to fulfil a deranged woman’s perverted lust for revenge.
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