Today the area was sealed off – crime-scene tape draped across the gates that led onto the lane, two officers posted there to keep curious passersby away and a growing number of reporters and camera crews in check. Tourists had been replaced by SOCOs, the carefree wandering giving way to an agonizingly slow fingertip search of the area. Crime-scene photographers, using massive lenses and harsh flashes, were capturing every grim detail. In the centre of the green, a large white tent shimmered in the breeze, hastily erected to protect as much of the immediate scene as possible.
A similar tent was being erected behind Ford to preserve the primary crime scene and contain the sheer horror of what was there. But he knew better. Containment was impossible now. They could shield it from sight, but it was too late. The damage was done. He would see that image for the rest of his life, revisit it in countless dreams, dwell on it in quiet moments driving home or sitting up during the nights when sleep would not come. It was branded into his memory. Part of him. And, somehow, he had to try to make sense of it. And the twisted motivation that led to it being there.
He shuddered again, blinking rapidly as his eyes moistened. He coughed once and dug out his notepad, glaring at the pages, trying to fill his mind with the facts, quell madness with the mundane.
The discovery had been made a little after six that morning by a normally spry and vital pensioner, who was now under heavy sedation at Forth Valley Hospital. Ford hadn’t yet listened to the 999 call Donald Stewart had made but, from the edited transcript, he knew it was little more than a stream-of-consciousness rant of horrified disbelief punctuated by snippets of detail.
Stewart had been out for his morning walk with his dog, Minty. As usual, they had made their way up a long, twisting path called the Back Walk, which led from the Albert Halls at the bottom of the town, hugging the old town wall as it snaked around the cliffs on the way to the graveyard and the castle. Making a loop, they would walk back down St John Street and head for home in Abercromby Place, a typical central Stirling street of neat hedges, spotless pavements and Victorian townhouses hewn from granite and sandstone. Stewart was obviously not short of money, Ford thought. A point worth remembering.
But that morning Stewart had never made it home. Walking past the Holy Rude, the dog had slipped his collar, squeezed under the gate and charged into the lane, yapping and barking. Noting the gate was unlocked, Stewart had followed – and stepped into Hell.
The report of what he had found, the thing which called to Ford now with its soft squeal, descended into a litany of swearing and sobs for God’s mercy. Ford nodded silent approval. He’d seen too much in his job to believe in God, but if ever he wished there was one, it was today.
He set his jaw, took a deep, hitching breath. Thought of Mary, who would be at the university now, where she worked in the IT department. Mary, who would hold him in bed when he moaned in his sleep, listen to him as he spoke, tolerate his silences when he couldn’t find the words. Not that he would have to do much explaining on this case: it would be on every TV station and front page soon enough.
Bracing himself, he turned, letting out a small sigh of relief when he saw the SOCOs had finished erecting the tent. He nodded to one he recognized. Even swathed in his white jumpsuit, hood and mask, the huge outline and pendulous gut of Jim Dexter was unmistakable.
He heard the squealing again as he approached the tent. Soft, maddening. Almost, he thought, excited now. Yes, Malcolm, that’s it. Come and see me. I’ve been waiting for you.
He stepped inside, earning a cold glare from another forensics officer standing in the middle of the space. Ford held up a hand, indicating he wouldn’t get any closer. He wasn’t sure he could, even if he wanted to.
The tent had been erected on a small section of perfectly manicured lawn just to the side of the ornate arch that made up the main entrance to the church. The wind picked up and there was another squeal. Some primal instinct to run caressed the back of Ford’s neck as he looked at the source of the sound, the object that had called to him, begging him to look. Just. One. More. Time.
In the centre of the tent a slender steel spike had been driven into the lawn, swaying gently with the wind. Impaled on it was a head, the spike entering just below the left side of the jaw and exiting just above the right temple. It put the head at an obscenely jaunty angle, giving it an almost quizzical look. It was little more than a twisted knot of waxy, ash-grey flesh. Lank dark hair was plastered to the forehead, while fluid from the ruined eye sockets soaked the cheeks and mingled with blood so dark it almost looked like oil. The rest of the body was in the second tent on the bowling green, and Ford dimly wondered if the injuries he had seen on it had been inflicted before the head was removed. Given the expression on what remained of the face, he thought so.
The face was a rictus scream of agony, the mouth forced open impossibly wide. Despite his revulsion, Ford was seized by the sudden, almost irresistible urge to step forward, remove the object that had been crammed into the mouth to release the scream it must have stifled. Instead, he looked away, stomach roiling, acid burning the back of his throat as he stared at the thick pink rat’s tail hanging from the mouth and trailing over the lower jaw, like a perverse line of drool.
CHAPTER 3
The landscape seemed to decompress as Connor drove west, the urban sprawl of Edinburgh and its suburbs giving way to the open fields and greenery of Linlithgow and West Lothian as he headed for Bannockburn. The radio was full of breathless reports about the murder, each station finding ever more inventive ways to say the same thing over and over again. He finally settled on Valley FM, more out of habit than preference. It was a typical local radio station – all nineties music and terrible jingles for small firms in the town – but he found the traffic reports useful. And it was on the station’s website that he’d read the first take on the story.
Donna Blake sounded older than he had imagined from her Twitter profile. The picture there – open smile, perfect make-up and just the right approachable twinkle in her striking blue eyes – gave an impression of youthful enthusiasm and likeability. A reporter who wanted to hear your story. But the voice drifting from the radio was deeper, more tired than he would have thought.
She went through what Connor had already read, telling listeners that the victim had been found in the grounds of Cowane’s Hospital. Investigations were ongoing, and a post-mortem examination was due to be held. The report then cut to what Connor thought must have been a press conference, the harried voice of a DCI Ford struggling to be heard over camera flashes and the background murmurs of a room full of excited reporters.
‘A definitive cause of death has yet to be established, and the victim has yet to be identified. Extra officers will be deployed in and around Stirling town centre, and we would appeal to anyone who was in the vicinity of John Street, Cowane’s Hospital or the area around the Old Town Cemetery and castle at the top of the town between ten p.m. last night and six a.m. this morning to come forward.’
The report cut back to Donna Blake as she gave some background on the area in which the body had been found. Connor tuned it out, his attention shifting to the two massive horse heads that loomed up over the horizon, the metal sculptures glinting in the late-afternoon sun. At thirty metres tall, the Kelpies were an arresting sight and, to Connor, vaguely menacing. They had been built as part of a project to extend the Forth and Clyde Canal, a monument to Scotland’s long use of horses in industry. But there was something about them that seemed designed to intimidate, one staring straight ahead, the other frozen with its head flung back, as though it was rearing to throw off its rider.
He shook his head, bearing down on the accelerator and enjoying the surge of power from the Audi’s V8. The car was veering dangerously close to flashy for his line of work but it was, apart from the flat, his only indulgence. And, besides, his mother would have approved. He was almost sure of it.
He came off the M9 onto a twisting A-road that he enjoyed just a little too much,
reluctantly slowing as he came into Bannockburn. As he passed a car dealership and a petrol station, it struck him again how normal the town seemed, the banal markers of modern life giving no hint of its extraordinary place in Scotland’s history. In 1314, the armies of Scotland and England had met in fields close by and, over two long, brutal days which cost more than fifteen thousand lives, Scotland had prevailed. Connor had studied the battle at school, its sheer scale and savagery capturing his young imagination.
He ignored the satnav, taking the turns that led to his destination from memory. As ever, a creeping dread chilled him as he drove, his thoughts descending into a confused jumble. He indicated and turned off the road, the static of crunching gravel filling his ears as he drove up the long, sweeping driveway that led to the main house. Pulling into a space under a small grove of neat trees, he killed the engine, then climbed out of the car.
It was a clear August afternoon, the wind calm, the sun warm yet not overbearing. Despite this, Connor felt clammy, overheated, as though he had just finished an intense session at the gym. He loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt as he glanced up at the building in front of him. It was a Victorian-style sandstone mansion, the bottom floor dominated by two huge picture windows that flanked the open front door like sentries. To the left of the main house, connected by a glass corridor, sat a smaller, more recent building, like a modern block of flats, trying its best to blend in with its grander neighbour.
What would he find when he stepped inside? Would she be waiting for him, or would it be only the sickness that increasingly wore her face? Would he be greeted with a smile or suspicion? And how would he tell her what he was going to do this weekend?
Steeling himself, Connor headed for the care home’s main entrance, hoping that someone he recognized was at the reception desk. At least then he would be guaranteed one friendly welcome today.
CHAPTER 4
She felt like a teenager again, sneaking something illicit while her parents were distracted, filled with the fear they would come back and catch her in the act. But this time it wasn’t a boyfriend or a cigarette or a stolen drink with a friend. No, this time it was her laptop.
Donna hit the power button, wincing as the sound of the Mac chiming into life filled the flat. What the hell was she thinking? Why did she still let them get to her like this? She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old who had ruined her life and it wasn’t the 1960s. She was thirty-four, had studied for two degrees, forged a career in a male-dominated industry in which women were still expected to handle the puff pieces and soft news. If she’d been married they’d have been delighted by a grandchild, probably be pushing her for a ‘little brother or sister’ for Andrew.
But there was the problem. She wasn’t married, a fact of which her parents – her mother in particular – reminded her every time an opportunity arose. And, unfortunately, as Donna needed them to help with childcare when she was at work, the opportunity arose far too often for comfort.
Leaving the laptop to boot up, she headed for her bedroom, and the crib in which Andrew had finally decided to take a nap. She peered in cautiously, focused on his chest, watching it rise and fall gently, the dummy in his mouth jerking occasionally as he sucked. Again, she felt the amazement well up in her that this tiny life had come from her.
As she leant closer, watching his small chest rise and fall, she brushed a strand of hair away from her face and absently tucked it behind her ear. She had changed out of her work clothes and slipped on her favourite pair of maternity jeans – she was almost back to her pre-baby figure but the elasticated waist was comfortable – with a hoody and let her hair hang loose. She knew her mum would disapprove of her fashion choices – ‘Dress the part, Donna, always dress the part’ – and the irony of it made her smile. Just you wait, Mum, she thought.
Her looks weren’t intimidating but she had something that caught men’s interest, which she resented and didn’t understand. She knew she was generally seen as overly serious, and on the odd occasion when she let her guard down, her laugh could shock those who didn’t know her well. Her piercing pale blue eyes amplified her serious demeanour, giving her gaze an intensity she knew some weren’t comfortable with. It hadn’t been an issue in papers or on the radio, but now? She had a habit of letting her thoughts leak out in a cold glance, and she had never been able to meekly agree if she thought her bosses were in the wrong. But that was the career she had chosen, the life she had planned. Until Andrew. She had not been desperate to have children. In truth she hadn’t been sure she wanted this one, until the first moment she’d held him. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought, resisted the urge to pick him up, stroke his warm, smooth cheek and sniff the thick mop of hair that was so like his father’s.
She remembered her first meeting with Mark Sneddon in the newsroom of the Chronicle, the attention he’d paid her, telling her she was ‘just what the newsroom needs’. Standing up for her with the editors, arguing for her stories, sharing contacts, encouraging her to take risks, go for the political-reporter job she wanted. It was only later, when someone told her to watch what she was doing because Sneddon had a reputation, that she had the uneasy feeling she was making a mistake. But by then it was too late.
Way too late.
She crept away from the cot and back to the living room. Checking the baby monitor beside the laptop, she opened her email account. After wrapping the report for Valley FM, she had copied the audio file and sent it to an old friend at the local bureau desk for Sky. Donna had met Fiona Clarke when they both worked at the Western Chronicle – the Westie – in Glasgow. Back then, Fiona had been on features while Donna had remained with news.
It crossed her mind that perhaps she should have followed Fiona’s example, not stubbornly insisted on sticking it out on news. But news was the toughest gig and she wasn’t going to concede that she couldn’t hack it. She might have been better off if she had: after yet another round of redundancies targeting the features desk, Fiona had taken a payout, while tapping her contacts for a sidestep into broadcasting. She’d pocketed the redundancy money and found a better-paid job. Worked her way up to her current role as a senior news producer – and raised a finger up to her former newspaper bosses by regularly getting the stories they couldn’t.
With news reporters not eligible for the redundancy payments, Donna had stuck it out, telling herself she was an old-school newspaper hack, refusing to acknowledge the terror of being front and centre that broadcast required. She liked being a newspaper reporter because she could get the story and leave – no need to be in front of the camera, judged or even mocked by millions watching at home. But not now. Now it was different.
She felt a sudden pang of panic – had she been wrong? About Mark, about her job, about every decision she had made? Was that why she was now swallowing her fear and pursuing a slim chance in broadcasting? What if Fiona thought she was being too pushy and said no?
Her heart skipped when she saw the message she was waiting for.
FROM: Fiona Clarke [email protected]
RE: Stirling murder. Local reporter covering?
She paused for a second, finger hovering above the trackpad. Muttered a silent curse, angered by her sudden indecision. She hadn’t been like this before Mark. Or Andrew. But now . . .
She shook off the thought, stabbed at the trackpad and opened the email.
Hi, Donna, long time no hear! Hope all is well with you. I hear you’re a mum – congratulations, and welcome to the non-sleep brigade! Denny is four now, growing so fast and with an opinion on everything.
I listened to the package you sent over. It’s good stuff, and it’s clear radio suits you. Good to know you’re freelancing, I’ll keep you in mind for the future. As for covering this story, I’m sorry to say that, with the coverage it’s getting, the bosses are shipping in the big guns, so there’s not much work going at the moment. That said, keep in touch. If you get a good line on it, especially with you being local, let me know and I’ll see
what I can do.
Let’s get a catch-up soon!
Fx
Donna leant away from the laptop, breath hissing from between clenched teeth. Shit.
She looked around the room, let the quiet soothe her. It was a small, characterless flat, a new-build in an estate just close enough to the town-centre postcode to be described as ‘Central Stirling’. But she loved it. It was the first home she had owned and everything in it was hers and Andrew’s. No nervous waiting for the key in the lock – would he come home this time? She felt a wave of self-loathing wash over her. Why had she let him come and go, believed him as she’d told herself lie after lie? He just needs time. I’ll play it cool. I’m giving him space, the impression I don’t really need him. I’m independent and strong: he’ll find that irresistible.
In hindsight she realized she had done the opposite. She’d sat at home letting him pick and choose. She had put it all on a plate for him. She shuddered at how naïve she had been. She’d made it so easy for him. Too easy.
She scanned Fiona’s email again, forcing herself to read more slowly. How had she ever thought she, of all people, could become a TV reporter? It seemed ridiculous.
But there, at the end, a glimmer of hope: If you get a good line on it, especially with you being local, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.
Donna shut the laptop slowly, hardly aware that she was biting her bottom lip. Fiona had been right. And wrong. Radio did suit her. For the moment. But she had no intention of staying there, letting her insecurities hold her back again. After Andrew’s birth, and the nine glorious months of maternity leave when it was just the two of them, she’d realized it was time to get back out there. This time, she was going to grab every opportunity that came her way. Valley FM was a stepping stone. She didn’t want to be the reporter in the background any more, slipping in quietly with a few questions in her notebook: she wanted to be fronting the news. Since the shit-storm surrounding her pregnancy and the trauma of Andrew’s difficult birth, her priorities had been clearer, her resolve firmer. She was beyond caring what people thought, wanted only to show them that they were wrong about her.
No Man's Land Page 2
