But then he saw it in his mind, heard the low squeal of steel in the wind, Billy Griffin’s head mounted on a spike like an excised tumour, blood and gore dripping from it, the rat hanging from the mouth. Doyle was right. It was their case, their responsibility. But . . . ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t follow. What does the case being reassigned have to do with you asking me to talk to a civilian?’
Doyle drained the last of his glass, then reached for a refill. He left the bottle uncorked, a silent invitation to Ford. ‘Let’s just say I owe an old friend a favour,’ he said, eyes focusing on something only he could see just over Ford’s shoulder. He shook himself, brought his attention back to the present. ‘I trust the man who called me, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘Like you and I, he took an oath to serve, just in slightly more exotic locations and with stricter discipline. And the man he asked me to put you in touch with is hardly a civilian either. He’s a former PSNI officer.’
Ford took a sip of the whisky, let it soothe the jumble of half-formed questions and theories clanging around in the fog of his brain. The Police Service of Northern Ireland. An obvious link to Billy Griffin’s Red Hand of Ulster tattoo. He had another sip as he felt his resolve waver, the thought of speaking to the man taking on an appeal that overrode common sense and the knowledge that he would be breaking every rule in the book by doing so. ‘What else can you tell me about him?’ he asked, playing for time, willing Doyle to say something that would slam the door shut on this insanity.
‘Not much,’ Doyle admitted. ‘Look, Malcolm, I know this is highly unorthodox. But nothing in this case makes any fucking sense and, whoever this guy is, he might be able to help. My, ah, contact wouldn’t ask if he didn’t know we could trust this man’s discretion, and if there’s any blowback from this, I’ll take it.’
‘Sir, I . . .’
Doyle drained his second glass. ‘Bottom line, Malcolm? I’m tired. I’ve seen this force bent and twisted into something I don’t recognize merely on a political whim. Officers, Christ, friends I’ve known for almost thirty years are bailing out because they can’t take it. And neither can I. Used to be that being a police officer was what counted. These days, all that matters is making the accounts balance. Whoever did this, if it is one killer and the cases are connected, is bad news, Malcolm. And he’s on our patch. I’m out. But I want to be a copper one last time, follow the evidence, build a case. And if I have to step outside the bounds of the mighty Police Scotland to do so, then so be it. If you can’t help me, fine. But you know the case, Malcolm, and I know you want this bastard as much as I do. So, please.’
Ford looked at his boss, seeing not the officer but the ground-down old man who sat before him. He felt as though he was teetering on a cliff edge, at once terrified and exhilarated at the prospect of leaping into the unknown. ‘What’s his name?’
Hope flashed in Doyle’s eyes, bright and fleeting. ‘Fraser. Connor Fraser. Lives in town apparently.’
The name was like a gut punch. Ford rocked back in his chair, felt whisky slosh over his hand, thoughts crackling through his mind.
Connor? What was it the dedication in the book said? Not the same edition, but the same horror story. Hope you like it, Connie. See you soon. L.
Connor. Connie.
The words spun through his mind, rattling around like a ball in a roulette wheel. It was a coincidence. Surely.
Connor. Connie. That tattoo. The injuries to the corpse around the joints. He’d looked it up. It was a paramilitary punishment method where the joints of the knee, elbows and ankles were targeted with a gun or blunt object, the brutality masked by its colloquial name ‘the Belfast six-pack’.
Connie. Connor.
The squeal of the steel in the wind, the frozen scream on Griffin’s face, the rat tail dangling from the mouth.
He downed the whisky, let it burn away his indecision. ‘How do I find him?’
CHAPTER 37
After calling Lachlan Jameson, Connor found himself paralysed by indecision. It was a new and unpleasant sensation for him. He had always preferred quick, decisive action, an attitude instilled in him by his grandfather: ‘Face a problem head on, and kill the monster when it’s small.’
But the problem he now faced was what action to take? He knew the monster was out there, waiting. The message in the book was proof of that. But which monster? If what Simon had said was true, Jonny Hughes was dead, killed by a car on the Shankill Road. So who was sending him the message?
And, more importantly, why?
He forced himself to be calm, to resist the adrenalin that was urging him to get up and move. Told himself he had nowhere to go, no real leads to follow. No. Better to wait, see if Jameson came through with someone he could talk to.
For now.
He filled the time making phone calls from his land line, making sure he kept the mobile clear for Jameson’s contact. First to the nursing-home to check on his gran (‘She’s having a fine day, Connor, bright and aware, working on her crossword’) and then to Jen to apologize for his behaviour. He made light of it, brushing it aside as too heavy a weights session the night before, followed by too little sleep and too little food after. She agreed with him warily, her tone conveying nothing but indulgent scepticism, letting him end the call only after eliciting a promise that they would meet up later in the weekend. He agreed, motivated more by the need to get her off the phone than a desire to see her, the events of the last few hours making him crave solitude rather than companionship.
Calls made, he went back to watching Sky News, the volume turned low. It had moved on to other stories, but there was a constant reminder of Stirling in the ticker. ‘Stirling murders: first victim mutilated, known to police,’ it read. Connor mused on that. Who could it be? And what connection could they possibly have with Jonny Hughes?
Frustrated, he called Simon and went through the conversation again, his old partner reassuring him that Jonny Hughes was indeed dead. ‘Look, Connor, there’s no big conspiracy here. It’s not like someone swapped the body or falsified the death certificate. He was run over trying to cross from the leisure centre, left him not much more than a smear of blood and shite across the Shankill. What’s this all about?’
Connor considered the question. He knew that if he told Simon what he was thinking, what he had discovered, he would be dragging him into whatever was going on. But it was only a matter of time before he heard about the book, either on the news or from a contact, so perhaps he was only delaying the inevitable.
He sighed, felt the ache from last night’s weights session settle like an old friend in his shoulders. Then he told Simon what he knew, about the book that was found on the second body, the dedication inside. Saying it aloud, dragging all his fears into the harsh light of day, he had a dizzying rush of hope as he realized how ridiculous it sounded.
Simon shattered that illusion with ten simple words. ‘I’ll check the death report. Get the next flight over.’
‘Simon, you don’t need to. I can handle whatever—’
‘Really, Connor?’ Simon said, anger in his voice. ‘Just like you handled it the last time?’ Connor felt a rush of shame scald his cheeks and neck. ‘If this is connected to Hughes, I’m involved so I’m coming. I’ll check flights. Can you pick me up at Edinburgh?’
Connor agreed, knowing further argument was useless. He finished the call, telling Simon he would wait for his text, then see him at Edinburgh airport.
With the call over, the silence of the flat pushed in on him. He looked at the mobile, willing a missed-call message onto the screen. Saw nothing but the time and an unread text from Jen. He cursed, his eyes straying to the coffee-table and the gun that lay there. It was like a black hole, somehow sucking everything in the room towards it, making it the centre of the universe.
Connor reached for it, the cool of the surface welcome in his hand. It was strange how quickly it became familiar to him again, the weight, the feel of the barrel as he pressed his index finger tight against it, the snug
fit of the grip in the web of flesh below his thumb. He raised it, looking down the barrel, confirming what he already knew. The sights were aligned straight and true, the events of that night in Belfast having had no effect on them.
After their arrest, the Hugheses had been processed quickly, charged with criminal damage, assaulting a police officer and possession of a weapon with intent to wound. Showing the sort of fidelity that had got him into the shit in the first place, Jonny had left Amy to languish in custody as he made bail, giving the address of a cousin on Shore Avenue just off Whitewell Road as an alternative home.
The house was a small, pebbledashed semi, Union flag proudly on display. It sat in the shadow of the Whitewell Tabernacle, a huge, strangely angular building that seemed to be fashioned mostly from red brick. Connor knew the place by reputation, a pastor there having been taken to court and ultimately cleared after giving a sermon in which he described Islam as a ‘doctrine spawned in Hell’ and ‘satanic’. For Belfast, which was no stranger to bloody, often lethal disagreements over religion and the proper way to worship, it was an echo of the bad old times. For Connor, it was just another reason to be grateful that, despite his mother having been Catholic, he had been raised largely agnostic. ‘I’ve seen God-fearing cause too many deaths in my time,’ she’d told him. ‘I’ll be damned if that poison is going to warp my son’s thinking.’
After the delivery of the book to his flat, Connor’s first call had been to Simon. He should have called it in, registered it as a breach to the personal safety of an officer and his dependants, but he knew what that would mean – endless questions, change of duty, potential relocation until the threat was evaluated as low-level, no matter how hard he protested: the link between a book delivered anonymously and Jonny Hughes was thin.
But Connor knew. What was it Hughes had said the night of his arrest? ‘I’m going to make your life a horror story, pal.’
He had met Simon in a pub around the corner from the flat, playing it casual with Karen but making sure she locked the door when he left. That flat had had a similar set-up to Jen’s, with a main-door buzzer system and a substantial fireproof door on each unit in the block. But, still, he made sure his mobile was on and Karen’s was in arm’s reach when he left.
They found a snug at the back of the bar, Connor talking in a low whisper. Simon said nothing, merely sat and listened, but Connor could see the flashes of rage spark in his eyes as he spoke. It was the unwritten rule. You accepted the risk of being attacked on the street the moment you put on the uniform, especially in Belfast. It was why he and Connor still checked under their cars for tilt bombs and other devices before getting in, why they held their breath when firing the ignition. The Troubles may have been officially over, but the threat, and the lessons they had taught, remained.
The key lesson for Simon McCartney was a simple one. Fuck with me, fine. Crack on and take your chances. Fuck with my nearest and dearest? All bets are off.
When Connor had finished speaking, he paused, letting what he had just been told sink in. Then he grabbed his shot of Bushmills, swilled it around the glass and downed it in one. Connor saw his eyes redden, tears forming, and bit back a smile. Simon put on a good front, but he was no drinker – confiding in Connor once that whiskey to him was like turps. But it was part of the role he was playing.
Sitting in that bar, Connor couldn’t help wondering which role it was that night.
‘How do you want to do this?’ Simon asked.
‘Hard,’ Connor said, Karen’s confusion as she held up the book flashing across his mind. ‘It’s not on, Simon.’
Simon nodded in agreement. ‘Fine. So this is what we do. . .’
It didn’t take much to locate Jonny. After all, he had a business to run and Friday night in Belfast was peak trade.
Connor picked up his trail in the centre of town, Hughes following a pattern officers had tracked him on for months. He was targeting the bright young things who were out to impress: men with their achingly sculpted hair and precision-pressed shirts, women in dresses that sacrificed function to form. They were so eager to stand out, so intent to live on the edge, they had no idea that the coke they were buying from Jonny Hughes was so watered down and cut with shite that they’d have been better drinking an espresso.
Connor was at the bar in a Cuban place on Arthur Street, up behind City Hall. He watched as Jonny circulated like some kind of pasty, tattooed shark, his designer clothes ill-fitting, his glasses glinting in the strobe lights, fleeting pools of quicksilver. Soon Jonny caught the eye of a young man who was all false tan and designer labels, the pair heading for the back of the club and the toilets.
Perfect.
Connor let them get just far enough in front, watching them in the mirror behind the bar. Adjusted his jacket, felt the package in his breast pocket, then followed, no one paying them any attention. Blow or blow-job, they were just two guys out for some fun on a Friday.
But for one of them the night was about to become very serious.
The light stabbed dull pain into Connor’s eyes as he stepped from the gloom of the bar into a well-lit corridor. At the end there was a set of double doors. Fast strides took him to the men’s, women’s and disabled toilets. He walked past, to another door, which he inspected. Smiled. Standard issue. It led to a small fenced-off area on the side of the building, which allowed easier access to the bottle bins, gas canisters and other supplies that were stored outside. Converted city-centre pubs lacked the basement capacity for full cellars. He retreated to the toilet for the disabled and waited. He swallowed a flash of panic that he’d missed them, then heard muffled voices and the rattle of the lock. The door swung out towards him, a barrier between him and the occupants. He pushed the door closed, saw two figures, the back of Jonny Hughes’s head.
He stepped forward, snaked an arm around his shoulders. Pulled him in tight. ‘Jonny!’ he said, baring his teeth in a smile that made his jaw ache. ‘I thought that was you! ’Bout ye?’
He saw panic flit across the man’s face, a tremor tugging at the vein in his neck before his features arranged themselves into something like smug arrogance. His pupils were dark pits and, from the crust around his left nostril, Connor knew he’d been sampling the merchandise with his customer. Stupid. ‘’S all right,’ he said to the man standing with them, his eyes darting between Connor and Jonny. ‘Jonny and I know each other from way back, don’t we, Jonny?’
Jonny gave a jerk of the head in agreement, a smile Connor didn’t like slowly dawning on his face, like sunrise on the eve of battle.
‘Actually,’ Connor said, dropping his voice, ‘I’m after a bit of the same stuff you were. Give’s a minute with the lad, will you?’
The young man nodded, tapped his nose. ‘Sure, boys, crack on,’ he said, then scuttled back to the bar.
As soon as he’d turned the corner, Connor tightened his grip on Jonny, choking him in the muscled vice between biceps and chest. He wheeled around, marching Jonny towards the fire exit. ‘’Mon, Jonny,’ he said. ‘We need to have a wee word.’
Jonny bounced off the chain-link fence that made up the far end of the outdoor cellar, a grating, metallic shimmer filling the cool night. Connor eased the door shut, making sure the lock didn’t catch. Cast an eye around for security cameras. None.
Perfect again.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out the package and brandished it at Jonny. ‘This your work?’ he asked, not trusting himself to move. Not yet.
Jonny pulled himself upright, smoothed down his suit jacket. And then he did something Connor had not been expecting. He smiled. ‘So you got it. Ah, grand,’ he said. ‘Glad you did, Connor. It’s a gift from the heart, so it is.’
‘So you admit you sent this to Ka– a female I know?’ he asked, his voice as hard as chips of flint.
‘Course I did,’ Jonny replied, his glasses flaring in the sepia streetlights as he nodded. ‘You made a cunt of me in front of my woman, Connie, only right I return th
e favour. Question you’ve got to ask yourself is how I found that little bitch.’
Connor was on him before he knew he was moving, hand clamped around Jonny’s throat. He hauled him up, driving him back into the chain-link fence, which bowed and squealed under his weight. ‘How did you find out about her?’ he hissed. ‘Who told you?’
‘Let’s just say,’ Jonny coughed, hands clawing uselessly at Connor’s arm, ‘I know people who tell me things. So when I asked about you, well, they told me all sorts of interesting stories.’
Connor let him go, forced himself to take a half-step back. The thought had been there since the book had been delivered to Karen, hiding like a cancer in the shadows. ‘Who’s your contact?’ he asked. ‘Someone in the service?’
Jonny smiled. ‘Tut-tut, Connie. You think I’d tell you that? Doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is I know about dear old Karen. Made it my business when you fucked me over. Told you, Connor, I’m going to make your life a fucking horror story.’
Connor felt bone stab into his knuckles as his fist connected with Jonny’s nose. Jonny staggered backwards, blood exploding from his face, glasses skittering across the cold concrete.
‘Fucking bastard!’ he spat as he clamped his hands over his face, blood seeping through the fingers. ‘You broke ma fuckin’ nose. I’m gonnae—’
Connor swung a roundhouse into Jonny’s ribs, driving the air from his lungs and forcing him to his knees. He dropped beside him, grabbing handfuls of shirt, pulling him to his feet again, close enough to feel the heat of the blood, taste its iron tang at the back of his throat. ‘Who fucking told you about her?’ he snarled, glaring into Jonny’s eyes, seeing his own rage reflected back in them.
‘Away an’ fuck, ya pig shite, ye,’ Jonny spat.
Connor lashed out, catching Jonny with an uppercut that rattled his jaw and sent a snap echoing through the night. Jonny rocked back, dazed, then reached into his pocket, producing a lock-knife, the blade snicking into being like a magic trick.
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