He covered the distance to the cab slowly, wanting to make the driver wait, establish who was in charge. Reached the car, opened the door and slid inside.
The interior smelt of leather and polish, a typical private-hire taxi. ‘Evening, sir, where to?’ the driver asked, without turning round.
‘Wellgreen Lane,’ he said, slumping into the seat, his mind already turning to the bottle of white that, along with a block of cheese, made up the contents of his fridge. It would go nicely with the coke he had left. And tonight he would enjoy it alone. No company or conversation, just him and something to watch. Solitary pleasures.
‘No problem,’ the driver said, indicating then pulling out. Evans heard the soft click of the doors locking as the car accelerated.
He watched as the streets slid by, clutches of students heading home after nights out, people huddled in front of takeaways or at taxi ranks, the streetlamps staining everything a sepia hue. He closed his eyes, thought of climbing the stairs to his flat, the first kiss of chilled wine on his lips.
‘What’s the flat number?’ the driver asked, his voice as dull and monotonous as the sound of the tyres hissing over tarmac.
‘Anywhere here is fine, pal,’ he said.
The car pulled in, Evans contorting himself in the seat to get his wallet. He glanced up reflexively, looking for the meter so he could get the cash he needed.
There wasn’t one. ‘Hey, pal, what’s the . . .’
The words died in his throat as the gun slid between the front seats, glinting like a blade as it caught the streetlights.
‘Don’t worry about it, Matt,’ the voice said, in a tone that made Evans’s bladder give way, hot urine flooding unnoticed into his lap. ‘This one’s on the house . . .’
Tears slid down his cheek. The gun. That barrel. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He was babbling, heard his own pitiful mewling as he promised money and anything, anything at all, just as long as you leave me alone and let me go, just please . . .
The flash of the muzzle was blinding in the darkness, the sound strangely muted. There was a moment of pain, and he looked down, saw the dart embedded in his leg even as the world began to swim. Then nothing. Only static, like a radio tuned to a dead channel.
And now he was here. In some darkened, unfamiliar room, lying on a mattress stained with his own piss. Through the drug-induced fog of whatever he had been shot with, he vaguely remembered waking during the night, wailing for his captor to come and free him, straining against the chain that had been clamped to his ankle and attached to a steel support girder close to where the mattress had been thrown.
The tears began slowly at first, then dissolved into hitching sobs that filled the gloom and seemed to taunt him as they echoed around the room. Panic seized his mind, sweeping away rational thought with images of pain and suffering. He thrashed around, the chain clanging almost musically off the girder, the soundtrack to his suffering.
He had known this was a possibility as soon as he had started this. But sitting in a warm flat, the afterglow of orgasm heightened by coke and smoothed by wine, it had seemed an abstract idea, a vague possibility. Something that happened to other people. Not him.
Now, as the door squealed open, a dagger of light stabbing into the gloom from the room beyond, he understood it wasn’t a remote risk but an absolute reality. He had found his get-out-of-jail-free card, played it, and lost.
He shrank away as the figure stepped into the room. Even as reason dissolved into terror, he knew what would come next. Questions and pain.
And after that he would die.
Badly.
CHAPTER 14
Connor was on his third set of press-ups when he heard it. He paused, ears straining, scanning for the noise. It was faint, just a background murmur, but distinctive, a crunch-crunch of feet on gravel.
He grabbed his shirt as he made for the door, swung it open noiselessly, then padded up the stairs, pausing at the third step from the top, knowing that going further would put him in the line of sight of whoever was circling his car. He popped his head up briefly, then ducked down. Thought of Jennifer. Her smile. How do you fancy a tour of my place?
He stood up and took the last three stairs casually, feigned surprise when he saw the man pacing around his Audi, casting admiring glances and approving nods as he did so.
‘Morning,’ Connor said.
The stranger froze mid-stride. He was a squat, wide man, the immaculate suit he wore doing nothing to hide his slab-like arms and a gut that looked like fat but would, Connor knew, be like hitting armour plate. Connor had never met him before, but he knew exactly who, and what, he was. He’d met men like him many times. He knew the drill.
‘Nice car,’ the man said, small, hard eyes darting over Connor, assessing. From the subtle straightening of his back and the way he bunched his fists, Connor could tell he saw him as a threat.
‘Thanks,’ Connor said. ‘Gets me where I need to go.’ He paused. Considered. Thought again of Jennifer’s smile. ‘But I’ve got things to do today, so why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Paulie?’
Paulie gave a start, lips pulling back into a snarl as his eyes hardened. ‘How the fuck did you . . .’ he whispered.
Connor waved the question aside. It didn’t take a genius to put it together. Whoever had followed them to the pub last night in a top-of-the-range Merc obviously loved expensive cars, and the look Paulie had given the Audi was almost pornographic. ‘It doesn’t matter. If you’re looking for Jen, she’s not here, so you can tell Daddy dearest that I acted like a gentleman. You’ll understand if I don’t invite you in to check for yourself.’
Paulie hunched his shoulders, marching forward, fists balled. ‘Why, you cheeky little fuck, I ought to . . .’
Connor stepped forward, startling Paulie, who stuttered to a halt. This was a man used to people getting out of his way or running when he approached them. Having someone step towards him did not compute. Connor held up his hands. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to antagonize,’ he said. ‘But, seriously, she’s not here. And I’m not a threat. Promise. So why don’t you tell your boss that and go have a nice day? Like I said, I’ve got things to do.’
Angry blotches of red peppered Paulie’s forehead. His gaze darted across Connor’s body, not assessing this time. Targeting. ‘Now, listen, shithead,’ he hissed, stabbing at the air in front of him with a chubby, misshapen forefinger. ‘Mr MacKenzie has a message for you. Stay the fuck away from Jennifer. She doesn’t need the likes of you sniffing around.’
Connor was unable to keep the smile off his face. He knew he shouldn’t antagonize the man, found it impossible to resist. ‘Ah, but you’ve got to admit, Paulie, she does wear some nice perfume.’
Paulie lunged forward, fist slashing through the air in a roundhouse blow that was aimed at Connor’s jaw. He pivoted left, stepping into the swing of the punch, close enough now to smell the stale smoke that clung to Paulie like a shroud. He grabbed Paulie’s wrist and kept moving, turning the bigger man’s momentum against him. Paulie was dragged forward, unprepared for the sudden shifting of his weight and Connor adding to the speed of his follow-through. Connor flashed his arm out, slamming Paulie in the chest with an open palm. He staggered back, careening off the bins that were neatly lined up against the wall, before stumbling and crashing to the ground, the impact of the landing forcing his breath, and a stream of expletives, from him.
Paulie beetled around on the ground, legs flailing as he rolled over and came up to a sitting position. His chest heaved, and Connor saw gravel stuck to his cheek. He swiped at it angrily, eyes burning with fury as he glared at Connor. ‘You’re a fucking dead man,’ he whispered, his voice corpse-cold.
Connor placed two fingers to his neck, checking his pulse. ‘Not yet, Paulie. Now how ’bout we leave this, eh? Who Jen sees is her call, not yours or her—’
Paulie exploded forward, showing a fluid grace that belied his bulky frame. His arms were stretched out, his hands grasping
for Connor, his entire being consumed by the simple desire to sink his fingers into the man who had humiliated him.
Mistake.
Connor whipped his elbow up, the bone crashing into Paulie’s outstretched hand like a wrecking ball. He felt the crunch of fingers as a cry of pain filled his ears, then dropped low and stabbed a left jab into Paulie’s side, driving the last of the air from his lungs. Paulie collapsed to his knees and slid forward, Connor catching him by the collar before his face slammed into the ground.
Paulie reared to his knees, cradling his ruined left hand close to his chest. He looked up at Connor, tears of pain and outrage shimmering in his eyes. ‘You fucking—’
‘Paulie,’ Connor cut him off, ‘I didn’t ask for this. Now, you can threaten me, come back with some pals and we can do this dance again. Or . . .’ he paused, let everything human drain from his voice ‘. . . you can leave it. Tell Mr MacKenzie I’m no danger. Jen asked me to check the security at her place, and that’s what I’m going to do. Have him look up Sentinel Securities. So leave it, Paulie. Go get in your nice Merc, get yourself fixed up and pretend this didn’t happen.’
Paulie glared up at him, the need to lash out arguing with the pain in his hand. ‘This isn’t the end of it,’ he said finally.
‘Maybe not,’ Connor said, ‘but if I see you again, it will be. I’m sorry I hurt your hand, but you’re a big boy, you know how these things go. So call it a draw, and be on your way.’
Paulie rose slowly to his feet, looked down at his once-immaculate suit. It seemed to fit him better now, as though rumpled after a tussle was more his style. He backed away slowly, keeping eye contact with Connor. Then he turned and stalked off, muttering under his breath.
Connor watched him go, the cloying, copper aftertaste of adrenalin congealing at the back of his throat. He spat once and shook his head, angry with himself. He shouldn’t have antagonized Paulie, should have found a way to defuse the situation, avoid a confrontation. No doubt Jen’s father would hear about what had happened. Would he send others to avenge Paulie’s injuries? Or take the message and leave him alone?
Connor sighed and headed back to the flat. So much for the quiet life.
CHAPTER 15
The coffee was cold and bitter, but it was doing its job and holding the exhaustion that was settling into his muscles at bay. Ford drained the mug, then reached up and rubbed his eyes, as though he could massage some energy into himself.
No such luck.
He stood, his left knee making its all-too-familiar protest, then walked across the room to the incident board and the pictures that were pinned there.
The SOCOs’ picture of the decapitated head had been joined by another, this time of the victim’s mugshot when he was last arrested, four years ago. They were lucky, Ford thought, that Billy Griffin had been stupid enough to get lifted. Looking at the pictures side by side, the knot of sallow, bloodied flesh, its features frozen in a rictus of agony, bore little resemblance to the man in the mugshot. In life, Billy Griffin had been almost handsome, with high cheekbones, fashionably tousled dark hair and thick, full lips that made it look as though he were pouting for the camera. But, as Ford now knew, Billy Griffin’s character did not match his appearance.
At least, not in life.
His record read like a CV for a petty thug. Born and bred in Bridgeton, east Glasgow, Billy had started his career early, with convictions for robbery, possession of class-A substances and assault. He was a known troublemaker on the terraces, banned from the grounds of both Celtic and Rangers, the city’s two big teams.
He’d bounced along like that for years, supporting himself with semi-regular work as a painter and decorator for one of the big housing firms that seemed intent on buying up every open plot of land in Scotland and throwing up increasingly small properties. So far, so average. Just another young man with too short a fuse and too quick a fist.
But then came September 2014, and Billy had graduated to the big league.
It was the Friday after the independence referendum. With feelings still running high, Yes voters had descended on Glasgow’s George Square, which had become something of a focal point for pro-independence rallies in the build-up to the vote on 18 September. That night, they’d come to commiserate with each other and vent their wounded defiance. But things had turned ugly when a group of pro-Union supporters charged at the crowd, chanting Nazi slogans, taunting with ‘Rule Britannia’ and firing off a flare that acted as a starting gun for a night of violence. In the end, eleven people were arrested for various offences, ranging from assault and breach of the peace to vandalism. Billy Griffin was one of them.
When the trouble had started, police officers at the scene had quickly formed a human barrier to keep the two factions separate and the chance of violence to a minimum. The problem was, Billy was already in the square when the pro-Union protesters arrived. When the situation descended into chaos, he kept his head down, waiting for his moment.
It came when Billy managed to grab a pro-independence banner and a flag bearing the Yes logo. Clambering onto a statue of Queen Victoria on horseback, which stood at the corner of the square, facing the pro-Union crowd, he had held both flag and banner aloft and set them alight, to roaring approval of the No crowd. Thinking back, Ford remembered the image of Billy that had been splashed across the papers and TV. In that moment, Billy Griffin had graduated from part-time thug to heroic totem of those who thought political debate started with questioning your opponents’ parentage and ended with a hard boot to their ribs.
Luckily for Billy, a police officer got to him before the pro-independence supporters, who would have ripped him limb from limb. He went quietly, almost eagerly, his work done, his legacy secure.
Billy was sent to Barlinnie Prison and given a four-figure fine, both of which triggered intense debate in the media and gave them another chance to use the footage of Billy setting the flag alight. But then, as always happens, the story moved on, the commentators and the media looking for other topics and fresher meat. According to the reports, Billy had served his time quietly, been released and then gone back to his life.
Ford looked at the board, careful to keep his eyes on the picture of Billy when he was still alive. Something was missing. While Billy’s pro-Union tendencies might explain the tattoo on his chest, why had he been murdered so savagely? And if it was some kind of revenge for what he had done at George Square, why dump his body in Stirling, more than twenty-five miles away? Why not leave it in Glasgow?
Ford looked down at Billy’s file, suddenly aware of how thin it was. He needed more. Background. Detail. Who Billy was, what—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shrill ring of his phone. He gave the inquiry board one last look, as though it might reveal its secrets to him, then headed for his desk, a growing unease roiling queasily in his throat. This must be the call he was dreading from the chief, telling him the case was being reassigned to Special Investigations or something else.
‘Ford,’ he said.
‘Sir? Sir, it’s DS Troughton,’ the young detective blurted down the phone, his voice quickened by excitement, made tremulous by fear.
Ford sighed, suddenly irritated. ‘Yes, Troughton, what is it? I’m in the middle of—’
Troughton cut him off, his words turning Ford’s blood to ice, his lungs to stone. The world seemed to crowd in on him, taunt him. Torture him.
‘Sir,’ Troughton said. ‘First, your wife is okay. She’s been evacuated with everyone else and she’s absolutely fine, okay?’
‘Troughton, what the fuck do you mean? What’s going on? What’s—’
‘Sir, there’s been another one,’ Troughton said. ‘And this time it’s at the uni.’
CHAPTER 16
Donna watched as Ford’s car swept through the university entrance, the officers standing guard parting the throng of students and staff milling around.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered, driving straight on through the mini roundabout,
then pulling in. She flicked her hazard lights on, ignored the impatient blare of the horn of the car following her.
Thinking back to the press conference, she had known Ford was the key to getting a line on the story. Despite his professional façade, Donna could see from the tics and twitches that drew his face into a tight grimace – hear from the tremor he worked a little too hard to keep out of his voice – that something about the case had got to him. And with Danny confirming that the victim had been tortured, Donna had decided she wanted a conversation with DCI Malcolm Ford.
She knew that going through the press office would be a waste of time – there was no way they were going to let the senior investigating officer on a splashy murder case sit down with a freelance reporter from the local radio station. So she had decided to go back to basics. She would doorstep him. Wait outside the concrete monstrosity that sat like a sixties gargoyle on St Ninians Road. So, after leaving her parents with Andrew, she had driven across town, parked on Clifford Road, which faced the station, as close to the entrance as she dared, and got comfortable.
She had just lulled herself into a state of boredom, her mind a jumble of thoughts about Fiona Clarke, Andrew and the possibility of getting the job she wanted, when she heard the harsh bleat of a siren from the police station. She looked up, training her camera on the building and trying to focus. A moment later a marked Fiesta bulleted out of the station, its engine giving a high-pitched howl of disapproval as whoever was driving floored the accelerator and took the gear as high into the red as the car would allow. She only glimpsed the man in the passenger seat, long, thin face, greying hair and hawkish nose, but she knew it was Ford. She started her car and took off after them, her fear at driving too fast competing with the thrill of the chase.
She had missed this. Been away from it too long. No matter what her mother said, this was what she needed. Not condescending pity, not a steady job or a settled life. No. This.
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