‘Same as the council.’
Les fell silent. If Barry had been behind the desk, this would have been the point where he would have picked up the dagger-shaped letter opener and twirled it in his hands. But Barry had propped his elbow on a tall, slim table with a plant pot on it, his head resting on his hand. He was watching them with an expression Rebecca could only describe as bored. He was done here. Treading water. Serving his time.
‘I’ve spoken to management down south,’ Les said eventually, and Rebecca felt the now familiar sensation of being robbed. Management down south. As far as she knew, none of them had ever put out a newspaper. They were accountants and sales people. They thought in terms of page yield and staff ratios. They didn’t understand the necessity of following and breaking a story. Les continued, ‘I’ve done a risk assessment.’
Rebecca felt a sigh building. Risk assessment. What was the company’s exposure should anything go wrong? She jumped ahead. ‘You don’t want me to go, do you?’
‘Management doesn’t think it’s a good idea.’
She gave Barry a pointed look, willing him to weigh in here, but he hadn’t moved. He was still watching, still disinterested. If he had been behind the desk, he would have said the same thing, she knew, but she might have been able to talk him round. Les was a company man, through and through. If they sawed him in half, they would find ‘NewsMediaplc’ etched into his very being.
‘They think it is a dangerous situation, given the level of feeling in the area,’ he said.
‘So we miss the story?’
‘We’ll get the story, whether you’re there or not.’
‘No, we’ll get a version of the story, an official version. That’s not the same as seeing what happens first-hand.’
‘You can speak to contacts in the area.’
‘That’s not the same.’
‘You can’t go, Rebecca. It’s too risky.’
He was covering his own back. He didn’t care about her, just the backlash if anything should happen. All company men only cared about themselves. Okay, she thought, if the company didn’t want her to cover the story then someone else would. Elspeth would be able to punt anything she got, she was certain.
‘It will happen after office hours,’ she said. ‘I’ll go on my own time.’
Les shot a knowing glance at Barry, and Rebecca realised he’d known she would say that. Shit, she hated being predictable. Especially to guys like this.
‘I can’t stop you,’ he said. ‘All I can do is point out that if you do, you’re not representing the company.’
Suits me, she thought.
‘However, I need to remind you that your contract of employment precludes you from working for any other news organisation.’
The conversation seemed to end abruptly. It was as if there was more Les could say but he knew he didn’t need to say anything further. Barry was bound to have told him she was friendly with Elspeth, whose agency strung for a number of larger news outfits. She could easily sell an eyewitness account to them. Les and Barry might even know she was working with her – in a way – in regard to the murder. Inverness wasn’t that big a place and someone would pass it along. They would have been seen together after the conference. They were probably even spotted talking to Terry Hayes. As long as there were benefits, story-wise, to the company, then that was all fine and dandy. But if she tried to give Elspeth, or anyone else, the low-down on whatever was to occur that night in the Ferry, they would hit her with the contract of employment. They didn’t want to send her out because their risk assessment told them it was too dangerous. But they didn’t want her taking any story elsewhere, even if she went on her own time. As far as they were concerned, she was royally screwed and they didn’t need to cuddle afterwards.
Now, basking in sunlight that was almost warm, her thoughts turned again to her drink with Nolan Burke the previous night and she felt a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. What was that all about? He had spotted her at the demo, sure, but he had said nothing during her interview with Mo Burke in their home, even though she had sensed his eyes on her almost the entire time. His brother had also been focusing on her, but he hadn’t turned up at her door with flowers. God, the notion of Scott Burke paying attention to her was not something she would like to dwell on. And paying attention to her? Where the hell did that phrase come from? Alan had a lot to answer for.
She became aware of a tall figure at her side, and when she looked up Anna Fowler gave her the wide smile she had sported in her university office. ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ said the historian as she sat down.
Rebecca was surprised but returned the smile. Frankly, she was relieved to see her. Thinking about Les, Barry and Nolan Burke was messing with her head. A chat with a level-headed female was just what was needed.
‘I’m working – what’s your excuse?’
‘Came to see you. Alan told me you were covering court this morning and that it was your habit to sit out here if it was dry and eat your lunch. Your thinking place, he called it.’
Rebecca’s laugh barked. ‘Ah, well. I don’t do much thinking really. It’s more a place to decompress.’
Anna squinted down the river. ‘It is quite a view. We all need places like this, to think or decompress. Just to let the pressures of the day float off into the atmosphere and hope they don’t damage the ozone layer.’
‘Do you have a thinking place?’
She nodded. ‘Clachnaharry. You know it?’
Rebecca did. It was once a fishing village, now part of the western reaches of Inverness, a couple of narrow streets and terraced cottages where the Caledonian Canal began or ended, depending on which direction you were sailing. A sea lock acted as the gateway into and out of the Beauly Firth.
‘I once caused a tailback there – that sharp little hill leading out of the village and onto the main road? With the traffic lights?’ Rebecca recalled. ‘I kept stalling the car, trying to make that rise and turn left. Then I found myself stuck in a kind of limbo where the sensors on the lights couldn’t catch me, so we all sat at red for a long, l-o-n-g time.’
Anna’s smile was infectious, and even as Rebecca relived the mixture of rage and shame she had felt, she began to laugh. ‘The man behind me kept hammering on his horn and that just made me worse. When the light turned green, I’d move, but then stall again on that damn slope.’
‘It’s a tough one if you don’t hit it right, and we’ve all been there,’ said Anna, ‘but you get used to it. It’s where I go when I need to get my mind in some kind of order. I sit on a bench on the canal towpath, lose myself in the peace.’ She waved a hand at the view around them. ‘This is open, but there you have this feeling of – expanse, you know? The water, the sky, the view down to the bridge and across to the Black Isle. For me, after being stuck in the office or the lecture room or even in the town here, it’s freedom.’
She stared down the plain, her head cocked to one side as if she was listening to the waters of the firth lapping onto the shore and feeling the wind float in from the North Sea.
Rebecca spoke softly, aware that the court session would begin again soon. ‘So what can I do for you, Professor Fowler?’
‘Anna, please. Apparently the police visited the compound and spoke to John Donahue about the missing costumes.’
‘He doesn’t suspect you?’
‘No, no. He hasn’t spoken to me, but word gets around a set-up like that. It’s like a factory or an office – or a university, for that matter. Rumour is like currency. He was furious, apparently. Not a happy bunny.’
Rebecca heard something akin to glee creeping into the historian’s voice. It was clear she did not think much of the production company’s head of security. However, that didn’t seem enough to bring her from the university to the Castle Wynd. ‘That’s not why you came to see me, though, is it?’
Anna did not answer. She stared down the valley. ‘Rain’s not far off, I fear.’
Rebecca did not press her
– she knew the historian wouldn’t have left her book-strewn office just to talk about the weather. She was about to break her agreement with the production company again and it was a big step. Rebecca gave her the space to get to the point. She followed her gaze, saw the curtain of mist and vapour had draped over more of the land. The sky was closing in on itself, the clouds thickening and swallowing the patches of blue. The air had chilled and she felt – or at least she thought she felt – something cold and damp kiss her lightly on the cheek. She hoped Anna got to the point before the weather front hit.
She heard a slight sigh and turned back to face Anna Fowler, who was still staring down river. Her voice was slightly strained as she spoke. ‘I saw the photo of the murder victim on your website.’
There was another silence and Rebecca felt she had to fill the void. ‘Okay.’
Anna swallowed. ‘And I’ve seen him before, or at least I think I have.’
‘Where? Not at the university . . .’
Anna looked directly at Rebecca now, confidence returning to her voice. She had begun this, she would finish it. This was the right thing to do. ‘No – at the set, or nearby. I saw him a few times in Fort William. Pubs, in the street, that sort of thing. I think he was working for the production, some kind of construction. The company hired local labour for some of the land clearance and to help put the compound together.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No, I never spoke to him. But John Donahue does, I’m certain of it.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
Anna took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t easy for me, Rebecca. You know I shouldn’t rightly be talking to you, the press . . .’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean, a film is a film, an agreement is an agreement, but a man has lost his life here, right?’
‘Right.’
Anna nodded, satisfied, more with her own decision that Rebecca’s reassurances. ‘I saw him arguing with John Donahue. It was quite heated. Donahue grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and threw him to the ground.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘I don’t know. I was quite a bit away and couldn’t hear. But I was certain I heard one thing.’
‘What was that?’
‘John Donahue said that if this man ever came back again, he’d kill him.’
28
Donahue’s voice was as irritable as ever, but at least he took DCI Roach’s call. That was something. ‘Please make it fast, DCI Roach, I’m—’
‘Aye, a busy man,’ she said, her own voice patient but carrying enough irony to bring the most pompous of arseholes back to earth. ‘I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.’ The words ‘even if you do mind’ were left unsaid.
‘I’ve already told you everything I know. Some bastard, probably someone from that New Dawn bunch of dickheads, nicked the costumes. How one of those costumes ended up on your victim I’ve no idea.’
‘It’s the victim I’d like to talk about, Mr Donahue.’
‘That’s Detective Superintendent Donahue.’
‘You’re retired.’
‘I still deserve the title as a mark of respect.’
My God, he’s an insufferable prick, she thought. She was tempted to tell him that respect was earned and not just handed over on a plate because you happened to have a title or had given enough funny handshakes to climb the promotion ladder. But she controlled her instincts. Even so, she wasn’t letting him off the hook.
‘I’m showing you respect by contacting you myself and not getting a DC to do it,’ she said. ‘However, if you’d rather, I’ll send a car to pick you up and we can talk here in Inverness.’
‘You’ve used that bluff once too often, darling.’
‘It’s no bluff, former Detective Superintendent. And it’s DCI Roach, not darling. I am nobody’s darling.’ She thought of Joe. It was a fleeting thought, an impression of his face really. Jesus, when will this shit end?
‘I can understand that,’ said Donahue, and she regretted giving him the feedline. ‘So best get on with it. What do you want now?’
‘I’ve received some information that you may be able to help me with.’
She had just put the phone down after speaking to Rebecca Connolly, who had told her that the dead man had been seen arguing with Donohue. She’d refused to reveal her source. Roach had considered threatening the younger woman but decided against it, for now. So far she and her friend Elspeth had been as good as their word. If this tip proved as dependable as their first then this unofficial partnership might be beneficial in the long run. Anyway, she didn’t like Donahue. Didn’t like his air of male privilege. He was old job and she was new. She wanted the opportunity to noise him up.
‘Get on with it then, dar—, I mean DCI Roach,’ Donahue snapped. ‘I’ve not got all day.’
‘None of us do, former Detective Superintendent.’ She heard him exhale sharply. She was getting his goat. She shouldn’t be doing that but she didn’t care. ‘Have you seen the image of the murder victim?’
A slight pause greeted her question. There was a lie coming, she knew it.
‘I haven’t had time to look, I’m—’
‘A busy man, yes, that’s been established. I’m asking because we’ve received information that you knew him.’
The line between them fell silent again. Just for a moment. A breath. ‘Who told you that?’
‘That doesn’t concern you at this stage. It seems you were observed arguing with the dead man.’
‘That’s not true.’ The words came quickly. A bit too quickly. Another lie. She was disappointed. She would have expected a former detective superintendent to be a more accomplished liar. Surely, he’d had plenty of practice back in the day, or maybe he was just out of the habit?
‘So, you didn’t threaten to kill him?’
‘I did not.’
‘Have you ever threatened to kill anyone?’
‘DCI Roach, I’m sure I’ve threatened to kill at least one person during the course of my career. Haven’t you?’
Joe. She threatened to kill her husband once. It had been an argument, a bad one. It had raged back and forth and at one point she had blurted out that she would do him in if he continued. She didn’t mean it. She regretted it now.
‘We’re not talking about me,’ she said. ‘I mean recently, have you argued with someone recently and threatened bodily harm?’
‘No, Detective Chief Inspector, I have not.’ His voice had regained its confidence. ‘Where are you getting this from?’
Both pieces of information had related to the movie production, so Roach had little doubt that the person worked there. She wasn’t about to share that hunch, though. ‘Information received.’
‘Anonymous?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘I’ll bet.’ His voice was dry now. He was back on firmer ground.
‘So you did not know the victim and did not have an argument with him? You did not throw him to the ground and threaten to kill him?’
‘Asked and answered already,’ he said. ‘Is that all?’
Roach didn’t know what she’d expected from him, but she couldn’t press the matter further. ‘Yes, that’s all for now.’
He hung up without saying goodbye. That was hurtful and she might never recover. She stared at the phone for a while, as if it had some answers. Perhaps she should have pressed that reporter for the name. Elspeth McTaggart struck her as an old hand and not easily threatened, but Rebecca Connolly was young and might cave. Whoever it was might be spinning them a yarn, someone who didn’t like John Donahue. She felt reasonably certain that was a long list. She had relished the chance of poking the bear but, on the off chance there was something in this report of an altercation between Donahoe and the dead man, she needed to speak to the witness directly. That meant she would have to meet Rebecca Connolly and try somehow to talk her into parting with the name. She had a feeling she would have to come in with gu
ns blazing.
The landline on her desk beeped. ‘DCI Roach,’ she said.
‘Got a call for you, boss.’ Yul’s voice. What the hell was he doing being a telephonist? ‘Came through to the incident room.’
Another mystery solved. ‘Okay, who is it?’
There was a slight pause, as if he was embarrassed, before he answered, ‘Eh . . . it’s your husband.’
29
Rebecca was washing her plate and cup – another pasta ready-meal nuked in minutes – the TV tuned to the BBC news, when the name Walter Lancaster reached into the small kitchen and grabbed her. She stepped into her living room, her hands still wet and dripping soapy bubbles, in time to see that night’s Reporting Scotland presenter hand over to Lola McLeod, live in Inverness. The reporter was bundled up in a warm coat with the grey waters of the Moray visible in the gathering darkness behind her, the lights of the Kessock Bridge soaring upwards. Rebecca’s heart began to hammer as she listened to Lola outline the story. She felt physically sick. It wasn’t that they’d got the man’s name – they would have picked that up from her online report – it was the fact that they had actually tracked him down to a hostel. She should have done that. She should have found him. She hadn’t, but Lola had.
The report cut to daylight on a street in Inverness, and there he was, a plastic grocery bag in one hand, shoulders hunched, eyes studying the ground beneath his feet as if he was counting the cracks in the pavement. He hadn’t changed much since the snatched shot Rebecca had seen in the newspaper. His hair was perhaps a bit thinner, still in need of a wash. He’d lost a bit of weight, though. Not much, but a bit. He was still pear-shaped, his legs looking slightly knock-kneed in a pair of wide trousers. He still bore the scars of being beaten by the ugly stick at birth. Some men improve with age, but not Lancaster. Or perhaps it was the ugliness within that shone through.
He didn’t speak to Lola when she stepped out to intercept him as he tried to enter the hostel. He seemed surprised to see her, then gave the camera a hunted look. Lola asked him why he wanted to stay in Inverness. He didn’t answer, tried to sidestep her, but she smoothly moved with him, not quite blocking his way but not exactly letting him pass easily. She asked him if he thought the people of Inchferry should have a say in whether he was rehomed there. He veered away again, giving the camera another furtive glance, the hand with the plastic bag coming up to try to block its view of his face. Lola let him pass this time but kept asking him questions. Are you still a danger to children, Mr Lancaster? Do you think you’re a good neighbour, Mr Lancaster? Do you think you’ll be safe, Mr Lancaster?
The Blood is Still Page 15