by JD Kirk
It wasn’t one way, either. Fergus had often been the one to instigate conversations back in the early days of the liaison, but they always turned quickly to meeting up for a quick shag.
In more recent messages, though, he seemed less concerned about the sex element, and instead came across as genuinely interested in how Lana’s day was going.
He seemed worried, too. There were several messages asking if she was OK, if she was safe, if Clyde had been ‘keeping the heid.’
An unfortunate phrase, given the ending that had been waiting for him.
There was some talk of running away, but the messages referenced in-person conversations they must’ve had, and information was sparse. One message did reference Fergus getting hold of a couple of grand, which corroborated what Dinky had told Hamza out at his cottage.
The final few texts from Lana were increasingly concerned, asking where he was, why he wasn’t replying, if she’d done something to annoy him or make him angry.
In Logan’s experience, this was a fairly predictable pattern of responses from a victim of domestic violence—the assumption that they were somehow at fault, that they were to blame, even for things they had no knowledge of or control over. They had it beaten into them and screamed into their faces so often that they started to believe their own bad press.
“I shouldn’t have provoked him.”
“I should know by now how stressed he is.”
“It was my own stupid fault for saying anything.”
The final message from Lana had been sent in the early hours of that morning, long after the news had been broken to her that Fergus was in no fit state to ever reply to her again.
I’m so, so sorry. xx
It was a slightly odd thing to text to a dead man’s phone, but then grief made you do odd things. And Lana Lennon would not just have been grieving for the man who had died, she would be grieving for herself, and the life she had lost.
He’d been her chance to escape. Her way out. And now, that door had been slammed shut.
And then, to add insult to injury, had its head cut off.
There was one element of Lana’s story that didn’t fit with the messages on the phone, though. Her husband did know about the affair. It was there in front of Logan, in black and white. He’d sent a text to Fergus’s phone the night before the PE teacher’s death, revealing that he knew all about the relationship.
He didn’t say how he knew, just that he did. He seemed angry, understandably, the message packed with enough expletives to make former Detective Superintendent Bob Hoon blush.
OK, maybe not quite that many.
Fergus had written one message back, denying everything, and claiming ignorance.
The follow-up message from Clyde was the paydirt, though. That was the jigsaw piece Logan had been hoping for.
“U R a ducking dead man,” Tyler said, reading the message aloud. “I’d imagine that’s a typo, boss.”
“Really? You think so?” Logan asked, but DC Neish completely missed the sarcasm.
“Oh aye. My phone does it all the time,” he explained. “I tried to write ‘fuck sake’ in a text to Sinead one time, and it came out as ‘duck sale.’” He looked around at the others and raised his shoulders in a prolonged shrug. “I mean, why would I be writing ‘duck sale’ in a text message to anyone?”
“Maybe if you were selling a duck?” Hamza guessed.
Ben caught the look of irritation as it flashed across Logan’s face. He was still raging about the hundreds of school pupils in the car park, whose chanting was now so loud there was nowhere in the building where it couldn’t be heard, and idle discussion about the buying and selling of ducks was not doing his mood any favours whatsoever.
“Doesn’t look good for the husband, does it?” the DI remarked, diverting the course of the conversation before Logan had a chance to lose the rag.
“It doesn’t paint him in a good light, no,” Logan agreed.
“See? Told you it was him,” Tyler said with a nonchalant confidence that suggested it was all over but the singing. “I knew it.”
“We don’t know anything yet. Not for sure,” Logan stressed. “Not until we talk to him.”
“We going to bring him in now, sir?” Sinead asked. She was standing by the window, watching the crowd of schoolkids in the car park. The teachers had given up trying to talk them down and now stood together off at one side, either working on a Plan B or just waiting until the pupils got bored, hungry, or both.
Logan took the printout of Clyde’s final text message from Tyler and read it again for himself. He scratched his chin, compared the message with the one before it, then gave the nod.
“Aye. Let’s bring him in,” he agreed. “Ben, you book us an interview room for today?”
“I did. Wouldn’t want to upset Mantits by not following procedure.”
“Right. Good,” Logan said. Then: “How many?”
Ben missed a beat. “How many what? Interview rooms? Just the one.”
Logan stood up. “Oh well, looks like we’ll be pissing on the Chief Inspector’s parade, after all. I want Lana Lennon brought in at the same time. We need to stress to her that she’s not a suspect, though, and don’t say a word about the text messages yet.”
“Oh, great,” Ben groaned. “Mantits is going to be bloody insufferable.”
“There a reason for bringing her in, sir?” asked Hamza. “I thought you said her story all matched up.”
“It does,” Logan confirmed. “But knowing she’s being interviewed in the room next door’ll give us leverage to use against Clyde. Especially if he thinks she’s spilling the beans about everything.”
Tyler clapped his hands and grinned. “Aw, nicely done, boss. Genius move.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Detective Constable. Getting your approval really means a lot,” Logan replied.
This time, and for perhaps the first time ever, Tyler did spot the sarcasm, but he nodded a chipper, “No problem, boss. Any time,” all the same, which irked Logan no end.
“What’s with these numbers?” Logan asked, tapping a finger on the list of calls and texts with the four different colours of highlights. “Lana and Clyde, I’m guessing? What about the other two?”
“We don’t know,” Sinead said, turning her head away from the window. “But he was in regular contact with both.”
“Well, aren’t they stored in his phone?”
Sinead shook her head. “Anything relating to those two numbers has been deleted. No texts, no call records, and they’re not in the contacts. Both pay as you go SIMs. We’re trying to find out if the owners are registered, but it’s unlikely.”
“Did you try calling them?” Logan asked.
“Both switched off. Straight through to voicemail.”
Logan sighed. “Don’t suppose they identify themselves on the message, do they?”
“Default greeting,” Sinead said. “So, no. Afraid not.”
“Aye. That’d be far too easy,” Logan said.
He looked down at the printout. There were hundreds of calls and texts marked in yellow and green—far more than even the pink highlighter used for Lana Lennon’s number, and Fergus had been in touch with her several times each day. Whoever those numbers belonged to, they were important to Fergus Forsyth.
The fact all traces of them had been removed from the phone made them important to Logan, too.
“Keep trying them, when you get the chance,” he instructed. “I want to know who they are.”
“Will do, sir,” Sinead confirmed.
While they’d been talking, Ben had rolled his chair over to his desk and, after a couple of aborted attempts, logged onto the archaic room booking software. “I’ll get our names in for the other interview room,” he announced. “Stop that bastard moaning at us.”
Logan pulled on his coat. “Good. Hamza, you’re with me. We’ll go bring in the nice Mr Lennon. I’d take Tyler, but his face is too punchable, and Clyde Lennon strikes me as
a violent man, so I’m not sure he could resist the temptation like the rest of us do. Sinead, try those numbers again, then see if you can track down his wife, will you?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard, sir,” Sinead told him. She pointed down at the car park to where the teachers were making their plans. “She’s standing right outside the front door.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sinead had the easy job: stroll outside, ignore the questions from the press and the baying from the pupils, ask for a quiet word with Lana Lennon, and bring her back inside.
Tyler had offered to come with her, but given his presence at the school had helped kick off the riot-in-waiting currently bubbling up outside the station, Sinead had suggested he hang back.
Logan had then stressed his agreement by bellowing, “Don’t you fucking dare go outside!” and shooting DC Neish a look that almost soured the milk in his tea.
There was no need for backup, anyway, Sinead had insisted. She was just popping out for a minute. It was a quick, easy job.
That was the theory, anyway.
She hadn’t counted on a couple of factors, though.
Firstly, the pupils had not reacted kindly to her taking away one of their teachers. There had been shouted demands asking Sinead what she thought she was doing. Students had blocked the path as she’d tried to lead Mrs Lennon towards the station’s front door. They were big lads, for the most part, all spots and snarls, their gangly limbs pumped up with surging testosterone levels and a desire to look impressive in front of the girls.
That was the first problem, and it led directly to the second.
The press, noticing the commotion, came surging over, cameras flashing and questions being barked. Why was she bringing this teacher in? How was she connected? Was she involved in the murder? Had she killed Fergus Forsyth?
Things had escalated when the journos tried to force their way through the testosterone-pumped teens. Already raised voices, rose further. There was swearing. Threats. A few scuffles and shoves.
“Mum? What’s happening?” one of the pupils had yelped. “What are they doing?”
“It’s nothing, Benny. Just… I’m just going to talk to them. That’s all.”
Spotting an opportunity, half of the journalists switched targets, and started wading through the sea of uniforms to reach the teacher’s son. A girl had been knocked over. A punch had been thrown.
Then, just as things were really starting to deteriorate, the front doors of the station had glided open, and four Uniforms had rushed out like football players coming off the bench.
And that was when everything went to hell.
The Uniforms had waded in. Some of the younger pupils had tried to scatter, but found themselves trapped by the bigger kids up the back. The constables weren’t being canny, and a few of the teachers had been quick to object about the unnecessary aggression on display.
The officers—all young lads not long out of training—hadn’t taken this well. Warnings were shouted, fingers jabbed, threats were issued.
No one saw whose elbow caught the First Year girl in the face, but her squeal drew the attention of everyone around her. She stood there, hunched over, tears, snot, and blood all tripping over each other in their rush to reach the hand she held cupped below her chin.
“What the fuck?” demanded a boy with a Prefect’s tie. He took a swing at a photographer who was lining up a shot of the sobbing eleven-year-old. The punch connected hard, sending the pap and his camera sprawling into the crowd.
“Just keep walking, Mrs Lennon,” Sinead urged, guiding the teacher through the gap in the crowd caused by the rising chaos.
Behind them, she heard fists and feet start to fly, but she didn’t look back. Let someone else handle that mess. She had her own job to do.
Mrs Lennon did look back, however, and her face told Sinead everything she needed to know.
“Oh, God. Someone’s going to get hurt!” she fretted. “My son. My Benny’s in there.”
“We’ll get it under control, Mrs Lennon,” Sinead assured her, hoping she sounded confident. “Best thing we can do is go inside, and everyone should start to calm down.”
The sentence was punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. A car alarm began to howl.
“You know,” Sinead muttered. “Probably.”
Tyler was waiting in reception, holding the inner door open so Sinead didn’t have to go through Moira’s usual interrogation.
The receptionist didn’t seem to care this morning, though. She was too busy watching events unfolding out front, a cup of tea in one hand, a couple of custard creams in the other. It wasn’t the sort of thing you got to see every day, and she always took the bus to work, so she had no concerns about her car being damaged and could just enjoy the unfolding spectacle.
“You alright?” Tyler asked, quickly closing the door at Sinead’s back. “Told you I should’ve come.”
“Really not sure you’d have helped matters,” Sinead told him. She finally chanced a glance back out at the car park. It looked like something from a cartoon now, a big mass of fists and feet. All it was missing was the brightly-coloured Wham! and Biff! sound effects.
“Are there no more Uniforms?” she asked. “Not that they helped matters.”
Tyler shook his head. “No. All out and about. Chief Inspector’s calling them back to base. The boss and Hamza both left out the back right after you went out.
“So… what? It’s just us?”
“Pretty much, aye. You, me, DI Forde. Whatshername on the front desk. Manti—” Tyler stopped himself in time, then side-eyed the teacher standing wringing her hands beside them. “Chief Inspector Lyle. He’s here, too, but from what I can tell he’s essentially barricaded himself in his office. I don’t think he’s going to be a lot of help.”
“Great,” Sinead groaned. “How long until Uniform starts arriving?”
Tyler shrugged. “No idea,” he said, then he turned to the woman beside them and gave her a big puppy-dog grin. “You must be Mrs Lennon. I’m DC Neish. Tyler.”
“I know. I was at the assembly,” Lana replied with a frostiness that, all things considered, he probably deserved.
“Right. Aye. Um… fair enough,” he said. “You want a cup of tea?”
“Not really,” Lana said. “I’d just like to get whatever this is over with.”
“That’s completely understandable, Mrs… Lana,” Sinead said. She guided the teacher to one of the two interview room doors and held it open for her. “If you want to take a seat, we’ll be with you in just a couple of minutes.”
“Do I need a solicitor?” Lana asked.
“You can have one. Absolutely,” Sinead told her. “But you’re not a suspect, if that’s what you’re worried about. We don’t think you were directly involved in what happened to Fergus.”
Lana paused at the door. She turned, worry lines etching themselves across her face. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “Not directly?”
Sinead indicated the uncomfortable chairs on the right-hand side of the room’s large table. “Please, Lana,” she said. “If you could just take a seat, I’ll be in in a moment to explain everything.”
For a moment, it looked like the teacher was going to object, but then she let her shoulders droop and perched on a chair as instructed.
“Two seconds,” Sinead said, pulling the door closed.
Outside, a second car alarm had now joined the chorus of chaos. The voices of children, teenagers, and adults all shouted and swore. There were panicky cries and bellowed threats, tears shed and punches thrown, as the protest tipped over into a full-on riot.
“I have to say, you’ve really outdone yourself this time,” Sinead said.
Tyler’s jaw almost hit the floor. “What? This isn’t my fault!” he protested.
“It feels like it’s probably your fault.”
“Well… I mean… I might have played some small part,” Tyler reluctantly conceded. “But, anyway! I didn�
��t want to do it! You’re the one who volunteered me to go in and talk to them!”
Sinead had to begrudgingly concede that this was true. “Aye. I suppose.”
“I can go out and try again,” Tyler suggested. “Maybe I can talk them round.”
“Jesus Christ, son, gonnae no’?”
Both DCs turned to see Ben making his way along the corridor towards them. He carried a determined look and a megaphone, and by God, he wore them both well.
“Another few words out of you and they’re liable to burn the place to the bloody ground,” he said. He gave the megaphone a jiggle to make sure they’d both noticed. “Just leave this to me.”
Sinead eyed the loudhailer warily. “You, eh, you sure about that, sir? It’s getting pretty hairy out there.”
“Aye. Got to watch your stress levels, boss,” Tyler reminded him. “Don’t want to overdo it.”
“My stress levels are going to get a helluva lot worse if the bastards come swarming in here,” he pointed out. “And anyway, that lot? That’s nothing. Try Sauchiehall Street at half-two on a Sunday morning, the day after a big Old Firm game, then we’ll talk about stress.” He gestured with the megaphone. “Them out there? A bunch of school kids acting up? Just you watch. I’ll have them all eating out of my bloody hand in no time…”
If bringing in Lana Lennon had been difficult, fetching her husband was proving even more so. Largely, because they couldn’t find him.
They’d checked the house first—a phone call, then a nip round and a knock on the door. He hadn’t responded to either one, and a quick check of the door handles revealed that the place was all locked up.
That had left the workshop, then. Logan knew enough about where it was that Hamza could pin the exact address down with a quick Google search. It was tucked away at the far end of the industrial estate just past Corpach on the road to Glenfinnan. He hadn’t bothered to put a sign on the outside of the building, but the staff at the gym across the road had assured the detectives they’d found the right place.