It is a production line of death, the child knows. One by one, or in groups, they are taken from the cramped prison and into the cold daylight. A shouted order. A musket report. A man dies. Another takes his place.
And then they come for the weak and the wounded. They are hauled outside, dragged across the grass and thrown against the headstone. The earth beneath is cold and wet, the stone at their back rough hewn. And there, a few feet away, is another stone, the V-shaped notch now home to the barrel of a musket, the soldier behind it a mere red-coated mound. And then the shot, smoke puffing from the musket and perhaps brief, fresh pain before merciful oblivion. The soldier’s comrades watch, some horrified at the slaughter. Others grin. Some men are blank-faced – this is merely a duty, an order to be carried out with no question. They are oppressors, those who slaughter with workman-like precision. They are the victors and history belongs to them.
The child sees them now, oppressor and victim alike, as Lancaster dies. They stand among the graves, even though none of these markers are for them. The mortal remains of the Highlanders moulder beneath the path leading to the door of the kirk. The soldiers – both English and Scots – lie under the sod on some foreign field perhaps, or in their home towns or villages. And yet something of them lingers here, little more than outlines in the night, shades of darkness within shades of darkness. They watch as the body is first clothed in red and then bathed in it as the neck is opened and life bursts forth in a jet.
He jerks on the slab, like a beast left to bleed out by the butcher. The ragged Highlanders understand, the child thinks, but the soldiers, English and Scots, are perplexed. The child feels their question floating on the night air.
Why?
Why? The child replies in words that take shape only in the mind. Because he exists and he does not deserve life.
The question comes again.
Why?
Because he is of your flesh. Because he is one who preys on the weak and the fearful. Because he must answer for his crimes. Just as the one they called Goodman did. Just as the man in the little room at the top of the stairs did, all those years before.
46
The incident room was almost empty, apart from DC Edward Moore and another young officer, a blonde woman on secondment from uniform whose name she could not remember. Roach offered Lonsdale a cup of coffee, was even willing to supply it from her personal stash, but he preferred tea. She had never been one to delegate such tasks to junior officers, so while she made the beverages he stood by the white board and studied what they had. She handed him a mug, apologising that it wasn’t a Yorkshire blend, and stood beside him but not too close. As if to underline her point, Lonsdale wiped his nose with a fresh tissue.
His eyes scanned the information on the board.
‘We’re on the same side, you know.’
She sipped her coffee. The earlier one in the old town was good. Hers was better. ‘All evidence to the contrary.’
They smiled at each other. Neither smile was terribly sincere.
‘So, do you think Spioraid found out your man was working undercover?’ Roach asked, her smile dropping.
‘You tell me,’ said Lonsdale, his attention back to the board.
‘As we’ve just discovered this link, there’s nothing we can tell you,’ said Roach. ‘Maybe if we had known . . .’ She left the thought dangling like a hanged man and thought once again that she saw something like regret cross his face. Or perhaps his lozenge had disagreed with him. You never could tell with these people.
‘How is the investigation progressing?’ he asked.
‘Still early days.’
Lonsdale sniffed. ‘So, no leads, then?’
‘A few.’
‘You willing to share?’
‘Were you?’
‘I am now.’
‘Are you?’ she asked, her head cocked to one side. ‘Are you really?’
His face was suddenly very serious. ‘Look – DCI Roach, was it?’ She nodded. ‘Look, I’ve got a man dead. He was my guy. I was his boss and his handler. I put him in place here, so I feel responsible. So yes, I am willing to share.’
‘To an extent, though, right?’
He looked at her, as if he was sizing her up. ‘You know the score.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘You people don’t like sharing, unless you can help it.’
‘Sometimes we simply can’t.’
They fell silent again, as Lonsdale took in what little they had, lingering only slightly over the printout of the image of the dead man’s face before moving on again.
‘We’ll need a formal ID,’ said Roach.
‘His wife is on her way.’
‘He has a wife?’
‘And two kids.’
Roach could not imagine what kind of life that woman had, her husband on long-term undercover work, living another life under another name. Now dead in a city that was probably alien to her.
‘But I can make the ID,’ Lonsdale continued. ‘Save her that at least.’
He seemed to have focused on one name on the board, written up in Bremner’s fair hand, she noted. ‘This John Donahue,’ he said. ‘You spoken to him?’
‘In person and on the phone. He’s a positive delight.’
‘Brian told me about him. We managed to finagle him a job on the set of that film they’re making.’
‘Conquering Hero.’
‘Yeah.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Ah, that’s good stuff. Anyway, he had managed to infiltrate Spioraid up here, thanks to him getting chummy with that Scott Burke.’
‘And selling drugs for him.’
‘Lesser evils, DCI Roach, lesser evils.’
‘Really? Tell that to the families drugs destroy.’
He ignored her. ‘Anyway, we managed to finagle that job on the film set, odd jobs, toting that barge, lifting that bale sort of thing. That brought him into contact with Mr Donahue.’
‘I’ve been told they had an altercation.’
Lonsdale’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I’m only willing to share to an extent too.’
She thought she saw a smile kindle in his eyes. ‘Fair enough. Yeah, they did have a row.’
‘Was your man selling drugs to the crew?’
‘Of course, but that wasn’t what it was about. Donahue and Brian had a history.’
‘They worked together?’
‘No, Donahue was Strathclyde, Brian Lothian and Borders. This was before we became one big happy family under Police Scotland.’
‘Okay. So what happened?’
Lonsdale held his mug away and the hand holding the tissue darted to his nose to catch a sneeze. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This virus is a bastard.’
‘Should you even be up and about?’
‘I told you, Brian was my guy. It’s bad enough I missed seeing his face on the news. I need to be here, whether it kills me or not.’
Roach understood. She would feel the same. ‘Just don’t die in my incident room. I’ve got enough paperwork.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Maybe they were bonding, she thought. Then she remembered he was a spook, and they only bond when their first name is James. ‘So, Donahue and Brian. History.’
He put the mug down on the corner of the nearest desk and blew his nose. Then he said, ‘About ten years ago Donahue’s daughter was sexually assaulted during the Edinburgh Festival. It was pretty bad, by all accounts. Brian was the investigating officer.’
‘Did they get the guy?’
‘Guys. Plural. Posh blokes at the festival for a jolly. One was the son of a government minister.’
‘What happened?’
‘Guess,’ he said, but Roach didn’t need to. Convictions for sexual assaults were maddeningly low. Often the only witness was the victim and they were often in no fit state to give proper evidence. Unless there was cast-iron DNA, good lawyers could cast enough shadows and doubts to blot out the sun. And if the accus
ed was well-connected, their legal team was normally the best money could buy.
‘So they got off?’
‘Yup. And Donahue blamed Brian, said he didn’t work hard enough. Had a go at the advocate-depute handling the case too, publicly dressed her down outside the High Court. Bit of a meltdown, by all accounts. Donahue was encouraged to retire soon after.’
‘So he saw your man, recognised him?’
‘That’s about it. Started to lay into him about it being all his fault. That he was a disgrace to the profession.’
‘In front of witnesses.’ Roach wasn’t asking a question. Whoever Rebecca’s source was had seen it.
‘Brian said no, but obviously he was wrong. So if there were any Spioraid, or New Dawn, people around . . .’
‘New Dawn haven’t killed anyone before, have they?’
‘Not to my knowledge. There have been a couple of beatings that we know of and a device was planted in a Glasgow mosque just after the Brexit referendum. It was discovered in time and dealt with. That same mosque was firebombed this week. So, no – they’ve not actually killed anyone. But there’s always a first time.’
Roach thought about this. If New Dawn had graduated to murder, then yes, the killing could be viewed as a message to anyone else to mind their own business. The costume, the weapon, the location – all linked to Scottish history. New Dawn, or Spioraid, or whatever bunch of cranks and halfwits they were, could have been making a statement. But what the hell did a recently released sex offender have to do with it all?
Whatever the solution to that particular conundrum, she knew what her next step was. She turned away from the board and raised her voice. ‘DC Moore, I want you to give John Donahue a bell. Tell him he is wanted here at Inshes. This is not an invitation and you will not accept an “I’m too busy” or “I’m washing my hair” as an answer. Donahue has some questions to face and he will do it in an interview room before this day is out. Should he body swerve you or give you any kind of grief, then you have my permission to go down the glen and drag him here in handcuffs. Clear?’
Moore grinned and reached for the phone.
Then another thought struck her. ‘And tell him to bring a list of anyone employed at the compound and on the set itself. Any snash about that, put him on to me.’
She still wanted to know who the Connolly girl’s source was. It had to be someone employed by the production company in some capacity and perhaps a list would help. Certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Lonsdale was studying the board, no doubt judging them on what little they actually had. Well, perhaps if the Branch had been more open about their operation, they would have had more. She tapped Donahue’s name on the board. ‘So what happened to Donahue’s daughter?’
Lonsdale blew his nose again and then answered matter-of-factly, ‘She hung herself soon after the trial.’
47
Rebecca had been trying for days to reach John Donahue, with no luck. The man simply refused to take any of her calls. She really wanted to talk to him about what Anna had told her, especially now she had a name. She considered crashing the production company’s centre of operations, but it was a long journey to Glen Nevis, maybe two hours each way, and for what? To be turned away at the gate? She couldn’t think of any plausible reason to present to Les that would cover taking herself out of circulation for an afternoon. She couldn’t even justify it to herself.
Her stomach had been telling her for a while that it was well past lunchtime, but she had ignored it in order to pile in copy. She finally finished, tried Donahue one more time, predictably failed to reach him, and decided to head over to the supermarket for soup and a sandwich. One of the benefits of the office being in the retail park was the proximity of a large supermarket for shopping and lunch.
She saw the black four-wheel drive as soon as she stepped out. Nolan Burke. Was the bugger stalking her? She felt that flutter in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t like it.
He must have been watching for her because he climbed out and made his way across the car park. She glanced up at the windows of the office, but no one was looking out that she could see. The first time had been after hours; this was broad daylight. If someone did peer out, what would they think if they saw her talking to one of the notorious Burkes? Would they put it down to a story and leave it that? Or would they suspect something else? Yet there was no something else for them to suspect. Nolan Burke was only a source and/or a story to her.
Wasn’t he?
‘Mr Burke,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I came to see you were all right after last night,’ he said. ‘And it’s Nolan, remember?’
She did remember, but she still would not go down that road. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘A bit sore but my hands aren’t too bad.’
She let him see the palms of her hands, where there were only a few red welts visible. He reached out as if to touch, then thought better of it. She snatched her hands away anyway and they stood awkwardly for a moment, neither saying anything. She felt like she was back at school, the first time a boy had asked her out. He had been pretty ham-fisted about it too, but she hadn’t helped by playing hard to get, even though she’d really wanted to go out with him. Not that this situation was the same, of course.
‘Anyway, I’m just heading over the road for something to eat, so unless . . .’
‘I’ll keep you company,’ he said, even though she did not recall issuing an invitation. At least, she didn’t think she had. No matter, she was stuck with him now, unless she could think of a way to wriggle out of it.
‘I’m only going for soup and a sandwich,’ she said. ‘I need to take it back to the office.’
‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll just make sure no one annoys you on the way.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely, do you?’ she said, her voice dry. ‘Although you might manage it.’
He smiled. He had a nice smile for a drug-dealing gangster, she thought, then instantly chided herself. He’s a source, no more than that.
‘I see that Lancaster bloke was found dead, in the Old Town,’ he said as they trudged across the vast space.
‘Yes.’
‘Was he really murdered?’
‘It would seem so.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘How was he killed?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know if they have any suspects?’
‘Why are you so interested?’
His pace slowed for a moment. ‘Because this was the guy we were protesting about and he ends up dead. You know my family, you know our reputation. The law will be looking at us.’
She stopped and faced him. ‘Did your family have him killed?’
‘No.’
She believed him. ‘Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?’
He laughed, but it was brittle and humourless. ‘Aye, right. I thought you knew the score, Rebecca. Innocence is no defence. If they want to make it look like we’re responsible, they will.’
He was talking about a fit-up. Her father had told her that strokes were often pulled in the force and there had been incidences of serious wrongdoing. ‘They don’t do that sort of thing any more,’ she said.
Another laugh, same as the first. ‘Aye, you keep on believing that.’
She held his gaze steadily, trying to gauge if there was any real guilt there. She saw nothing. But she detected something else. He was worried. Was he really concerned the police would stitch him or his family up? Or was there something else? Did the family actually have something to do with Lancaster’s death and, by extension, the murder of Jake Goodman?
‘Is there something for you to worry about?’
The way he avoided her gaze confirmed it. He stared across the car park, as if looking for something but not finding it. ‘Mr Burke . . .’ she said.
‘Nolan,’ he said automatically.
‘Is there something in all this for you to worry about?’
He still
did not look at her. ‘Let’s just drop it, okay?’
‘I can’t just drop it, you know that.’ She took a deep breath before she asked the next question. ‘Your mother.’ She took another breath. ‘I need to ask – was she abused as a child?’
A muscle worked in his cheek as he considered not replying. ‘When she was a wee girl. Her father.’
So, not such a decent guy after all, her father. She was going to ask him if Scott knew about it too, when he made a show of looking at his watch.
‘Listen,’ he said, his voice hurried. ‘I’ve just remembered, I need to be some place.’
Just remembered, she thought. He comes all the way to the retail park, camps outside the office until she comes out, then when the conversation seems to turn difficult he remembers a previous appointment.
He checked the horizon again, still found nothing, but he studied it anyway. Then he shook his head, turned and walked away.
She watched him, knowing she was both none the wiser but better informed. Nolan Burke had information, maybe merely a suspicion, but he wasn’t going to share. She had suspected there was a story in the family, in him – was that what the fluttering was all about? – but now she knew.
48
John Donahue’s temper was on default setting, which meant it was barely under control. He was sitting in the interview room, his posture so taut Roach expected he could shit diamonds. Apparently he had not come quietly.
She gave him a brief smile. ‘Thank you very much for attending this interview, Mr Donahue.’
He grimaced. ‘It was made clear to me that refusal was not an option. Your young officer was insistent to the point of being threatening.’
Roach kept a fresh – and sincere – smile from breaking out. So, young Moore had asserted himself. She must remember to give him an attaboy. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Donahue,’ she lied, ‘the officer will, of course, be reprimanded. However, it is important that we have a wee chat.’
Donahue twisted round when Lonsdale, standing at the door, blew his nose. ‘Who’s this?’ he barked.
The Blood is Still Page 24