‘So, dickheads then?’
‘Aye, but dangerous dickheads. It’s only a short step from sending snide parcels to real ones. And planting bombs. I reckon this bloke Goodman, or Roberts, was after them.’
‘And used Scott here to do it.’
Scott looked up again. ‘I didnae know, Maw. These guys, they’re convincing, you know? I just got friendly with him, that’s all. And when he said he thought he could punt some gear to the film people, I saw a business opportunity.’
‘Aye, maybe. But you being part of that Spioraid carry-on has put the family business in danger.’
Tap.
Twirl.
‘Cut off all ties, Scott,’ Mo said. He looked about to argue the toss but she cut him dead. ‘It’s no a suggestion. Keep away frae they bastards. I mean it.’
Scott pushed his chair back and turned away without a word. His face told Nolan that he should hide the toolbox.
53
Roach had declined the offer of coffee. She had very little time and wanted to get right down to business. She did give herself a minute or two to take in the office around her, and it reaffirmed her belief that she was not a fan of clutter. How could the woman work amidst this mess? she asked herself. Then she noticed a heavily laden coat stand in the corner behind the desk. Why would she need so many jackets, coats and scarves in the office?
Professor Fowler sat down in her large leather chair behind the desk and looked over at Roach. ‘Please do accept my apologies for the books. I’m helping a friend by storing his library at the moment.’
That explains the books on calculus and algorithms and Cartesian coordinates, thought Roach. Her own reading tastes ran to non-fiction – she never had much time for fiction, literary stuff bored her, and SF and fantasy were beyond her. Any suggestion she should read something from the crime genre would have her heading for the hills. To spend what little spare time she had reading about made-up crimes, where the author invariably got something wrong about police procedure, was anathema to her. Which was ironic, considering she was here in this dull, book-strewn office in the university and not back in the incident room. As McIntyre had said, her job was to oversee investigations, not carry them out herself. This, though, verged on the personal. She really wanted to see if she was right about this professor.
The window on the far side of the desk looked out onto the Moray Firth and in the corner Roach could see the far end of the Kessock Bridge as it touched land on the Black Isle. The drab sky was smudged with dark patches that hinted the short dry spell might not last. The overhead light was on, but it didn’t help much with the gloom.
‘So how can I help you?’ Anna Fowler’s voice was cultured but still carried a hint of an accent. East coast. Fife, maybe. She was a tall woman, Roach noted, and obviously worked out. Roach felt she knew her from somewhere. Did they go to the same gym, maybe?
‘First, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’
Roach dipped her head in acknowledgment that the pleasantries were over. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the set of Conquering Hero, if I may.’
There might have been a slight frown as Fowler replied, ‘In what connection?’
Roach kept her voice light. ‘Just routine. I’m investigating a murder, well, two . . .’
‘The man found on Culloden and the one in the kirkyard.’
It was a statement, not a question, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t make that leap, given the media coverage. Roach pressed on. ‘There may be a connection to the film unit.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m not at liberty to expand further, I’m afraid. But you’re the historical adviser, correct?’
‘One of them.’
‘And you visit the set regularly?’
‘Only when I’m invited. Mostly it’s a phone call or an email, a quick question about some detail or other.’ Fowler leaned forward. ‘However, I have to be careful. I’ve signed an agreement with the production company not to discuss anything about the content or any of the details regarding filming.’
You should have thought about that before you started talking to the press, Roach thought, still trying to figure out why she looked so familiar. Something about the eyes. ‘I understand that and I’m not interested in the film itself. Do you know Mr Donahue? John Donahue?’
Fowler’s smile was slightly rueful. ‘I think knowing him would be something of a stretch. Let’s just say I’ve met him.’
Roach had the impression the experience had not been not pleasant. They shared common ground there, at least. She studied the professor without seeming too intense. ‘Do you know anything about the thefts of costumes and props from the set?’
‘I heard about it. I’ve learned a film set is very much like a small village. Everyone gets to know everything fairly quickly.’
The answer was smooth and easy. Roach sensed no evasion. ‘What’s the feeling among the crew about it?’
Fowler hesitated. She was either trying to formulate her answer or wondering if she should be talking about this. Roach couldn’t tell which. ‘Well, originally the general belief was that it was Spioraid who had done it.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not been out there for a couple of weeks.’
‘You’ve had no contact?’
‘No.’
‘Phone? Email?’
‘None.’
‘But you were there a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Yes, they had routine queries. The use of the targe, things like that.’
‘The targe?’
‘The small, round shield the Highlanders used.’
‘And that’s something an historian would know about?’
Fowler laughed. ‘You mean a female historian?’
‘Not at all,’ said Roach.
‘Well, I’m also adept with the use of Highland weapons. I’m a member of a re-enactment society.’
‘Theoretical and practical knowledge, then.’
‘Very much so.’
Roach pursed her lips. ‘So, two weeks ago . . .’
‘Or thereabouts.’
‘Or thereabouts. Did you happen to hear Mr Donahue argue with a member of the crew?’
‘I did not.’
Roach tried to decide whether the answer had come too quickly, but Fowler seemed relaxed, showing no signs of stress. But what about her was so familiar? It was something fleeting, a will o’ the wisp sensation that Roach couldn’t quite pin down.
‘Does the name Brian Roberts mean anything to you? Detective Sergeant Brian Roberts?’
‘Of course. Isn’t he the man found dead on Culloden?’
Okay, thought Roach, she reads newspapers. ‘You’ll have seen the photo issued this week? Did you recognise him?’
A shake of the head. ‘Can’t say I did. Should I have?’
‘He was part of the crew.’
‘About two hundred people work on that set at various times. It’s a village, but I don’t know everyone.’
‘So you didn’t see Mr Donahue and the dead man arguing?’
‘I’ve already told you, no.’
‘Have you ever had any contact with a reporter called Rebecca Connolly?’
A pause. Slight. Ever so slight. But there all the same. Roach knew from experience to look for such pauses, little beats, tiny fragments of dead air when someone was about to lie but thought better of it. In those few seconds the mind races as it goes through the permutations of truth or falsehood and which is better.
‘Yes, she contacted me with some questions about the historical aspect of Culloden.’
It was, on the face of it, the correct answer because Professor Fowler’s name appeared on the historical sidebar that accompanied Connolly’s stories. That was what had pinged in Roach’s memory when she saw the woman’s name on the list provided by Donahue. Coincidences happen, but Roach mistrusted them and every instinct told her that in thi
s instance she was on the right trail. That tiny hesitation, that little abyss between truth and lie, had told her everything she needed to know. Professor Anna Fowler was Rebecca’s mole.
‘Someone from the film set has been feeding this reporter information, Professor Fowler,’ said Roach. ‘They told her about the theft of the costumes, they gave her a name for the dead man and they told her he had been seen arguing with Mr Donahue. Now, you’ll understand that I really need to speak to that person. I need to find out why this person is speaking to the press and not to me.’
‘I can understand that, but I only spoke to Ms Connolly about the history of the ’45.’
‘Professor Fowler, I’m investigating two murders. This is important. If you have any information, you have to tell the police and not the press.’
‘I understand that. And if I had anything that would help you, I would. Has Ms Connolly said she’s been speaking to me about anything other than the history?’
‘Yes, she has.’ She knew the woman would believe her — after all, why would she lie about that? She watched for any reaction but was disappointed. That one small lapse apart, Anna Fowler was very good at hiding herself. Yet, the more she looked at her . . .
‘Well, I don’t understand why,’ said Fowler, ‘because it’s simply not true.’
Roach had heard enough. She knew who the informant was but there was little she could do about it. At least now she may have sealed that off and hopefully the woman would see sense and come to her in future. As she stood up, her eye fell on a pool of water under the coat stand and she saw the lower hem of a waterproof garment directly above it. ‘You need to wipe that up. It’s not good for the wooden floor.’
Anna Fowler had also stood and she glanced over her shoulder at the damp patch. She plucked some tissues from a box and threw it on top of the puddle, then flicked a coat across to hide the waterproof. As Roach caught a glimpse of it, something in her mind clicked and sent a shudder of excitement through her.
She kept her voice calm as she asked, ‘So, you’re not local to Inverness?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I detect the vestige of an accent, not local. Fife?’
Another beat. ‘That’s right, Falkland originally.’
Another lie. The faint shadow of an accent she had caught was east coast but not Fife. It was further south. And in that moment she knew what she had seen across her eyes. Roach headed for the door, knowing she had to get back to the office so her mind could click the pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle. The waterproof. The fleeting familiarity. The—
She didn’t reach the door. She didn’t even hear Anna Fowler step up swiftly behind her. But she felt something heavy and hard crash into the back of her head and the sharp pain as her temple cracked into the doorframe. She tried to turn to face the woman but another powerful blow to the back of her head caused her nose to smack into the wood and she felt something give. Lights flashed behind her eyes and the wall she was pressed against began to tilt and fade. She lurched around, saw Fowler raising something again – what was that? A book? What the f—?
And then there was another shard of agony as the heavy object slammed across the side of her head, snapped her to the side, and the dark, threadbare carpet rushed up to meet her. But she didn’t feel the impact. Instead she found herself falling, falling, falling into a dark whirlpool where books and waterproof coats and Highland costumes swirled and eddied around her. And all the while she could hear the drip, drip, drip of water that had turned to blood.
54
It was just the two of them, Les and Rebecca, in the editor’s office. Outside, on the editorial floor, phones rang and keyboards clattered. Indistinct voices. A laugh. Someone happy in their work. Someone who didn’t get the memo.
There wasn’t a lot of happiness in this room, not on Rebecca’s part anyway. Les seemed relaxed, confident, but she didn’t know him well enough to tell if it was an act. She wondered how many times he had done this before. She wondered if he liked it, hated it, couldn’t care less. She suspected the latter. Whatever the case, she felt she was heading for a big decision.
He had just told her that he didn’t think she was fully committed to the company.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, knowing full well what he meant but taking some delight in making him explain himself.
‘Just that, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you and I get the feeling you’re not happy with the way things are now. The way they’re going to be if we are to move forward.’
Rebecca couldn’t help herself. ‘Your way, you mean?’
Irritation flashed on his face briefly. ‘Not my way. This is company policy.’
‘What if I think it’s wrong?’
The irritation was replaced by something more like smugness. ‘And there we have the root of our problem.’
‘Do you have an issue with my work?’
‘No, your work is impressive.’
‘Then what?’
‘Your attitude.’
‘My attitude?’
‘Yes. Frankly, you seem to think you know better than everyone.’
‘Maybe I do.’ She regretted saying that as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She didn’t know better, she knew that. She just felt things should be done differently.
‘That is growing more apparent by the day. Also, your absences from the office.’
‘Doing my job.’
‘Your job is here, unless I tell you to go elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere is what we are here to report on.’
‘There’s this thing they’ve invented, Rebecca, perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s called a phone. You pick it up, you punch in a number and as if by magic you speak to someone. There’s no need to go off gallivanting around Inverness—’
‘Gallivanting? I’ve—’
Les ignored her, kept talking. ‘In order to get stories you—’
Rebecca refused to be silenced and they were now talking over each other. ‘Brought in good stories—’
‘Can easily get over the phone.’
Rebecca yelled, ‘Exclusives!’
They both fell silent, each entrenched in their positions. She’d had similar conversations with Barry in the past, but this time it was different. The tone, the subtext, was more serious.
Rebecca knew her job was on the line.
‘You have to realise one thing, Rebecca, if you’re to stay here.’
‘If I’m to stay here?’
He ignored her. ‘Things have changed. Barry was too lax with you, for whatever reason. He let you away with murder, frankly, and that is going to stop. Right now. You’ve been given free rein but I’m pulling you in.’
‘I’m not a horse.’ She was trying to keep her temper but his entire manner was getting to her.
‘I know you’re not. I’m speaking figuratively.’
She was tempted to raise her middle finger and see if he could figure that out, but she didn’t. She could be hot-headed but was not foolhardy.
‘So here’s the way we move forward,’ he said. ‘As I say, your work is impeccable, if a bit wayward.’
Wayward? she thought, but willed herself to keep silent.
‘So, from now on, you check with me before you head out on a story. If I say no, then that’s it. No arguing the toss, no appeal, no going off on your own. If this place is to work, then the editor has to be God, you understand?’
‘Project manager,’ she said. ‘We don’t need editors, remember?’
He was silent for a moment, his eyes boring into her. When he spoke, the calm, businesslike tone was replaced by something harsher. ‘Let me lay this on the line for you. From now on, you do as I say, when I say it. No ifs, no buts, no arguments. You want to keep working here, those are the rules. You have to decide what you want to do.’
Rebecca sat very still but did not reply. Angry, hot tears stung behind her eyes. You want to keep working here, he’d said.
That was the question.
‘Okay,’ she said, her voice a little choked. She knew she had to bring this to a close because this mixture of rage and fear was not something she could keep in check much longer. She just wanted away from this cramped room, away from his smooth tones and his patronising manner.
‘Okay, what?’ he pressed.
What did he want? To be called Sir? A salute? She should be diplomatic here, say something, anything, that bought her some time to think, to plan, to make some sort of rational decision. That’s what she should do. The problem was, she couldn’t think of anything remotely like that.
‘Okay,’ she said, her voice stronger now, the burning in her eyes gone. ‘I’ll have to think about that, won’t I? Are we done here? Because, you know, I’ve got work to do.’
He gave her that look again, a kind of passive-aggressive stare, then simply nodded and turned away. She was dismissed. She resisted the impulse to click her heels as she left.
At her desk, her phone was ringing, so she answered it, heard Alan say, ‘Christ, Becks, I’ve been trying to get you.’
She glanced at her mobile, which she’d left beside her keyboard when she was summoned to Les’s office, saw she had missed two calls from Alan. Her anger and apprehension over the meeting was replaced by one of concern. ‘What’s up? Chaz okay?’
‘Of course he is,’ said Alan, then his voice dropped as he added, ‘Shouldn’t he be?’
‘No, of course, it was just you seemed so, em, flustered.’ The interrogatory rise in inflection had returned, but this time because she wasn’t sure flustered was the right word.
‘No, it’s Anna Fowler,’ said Alan. ‘What the hell have you done to her?’
It was Rebecca’s turn to be flustered. ‘Anna? Me? Nothing.’
‘Well, you’ve done something. She stopped me in the corridor about half an hour ago, tore a strip off me for introducing you to her.’
‘What?’ Rebecca’s mind flicked through what she might have done to upset the woman, came back with nothing. ‘Alan, I don’t know . . .’
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