No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  Connor’s pulse quickened. If that was the police, how could he explain this? Russell stepped past him, walking to the door. Connor moved to his right, trying to maximize the amount of clear space he would have when the door swung open. If it was the police, he would make his excuses and get out as quickly as he could, walk down the street and loop back for the car later, when he was sure no one was around to see him and note down the number plate.

  The adrenalin left him as the door opened. A dark-haired woman, with thin lips and keen blue eyes that darted between the two men, stood in the doorway. There was no trace of the glowing smile, camera-ready make-up and calm authority Connor had seen in her pictures, but he knew her all the same.

  ‘Yes?’ Russell said.

  She focused on him, gave a perfunctory smile that died when it got to her eyes, extended a hand. ‘Ah, Mr Russell. Firstly, can I just express my sympathy for your loss. My name is Donna Blake. I’m a reporter with Sky News. I know this is a bad time, but I’d really appreciate a quick word with you. Of course,’ her eyes moved to Connor, ‘your friend is welcome to stay if that would make you feel more comfortable.’

  Russell looked between them both, weary resignation causing his shoulders to slump. ‘Detective Anderson was just leaving,’ he said, his voice as collapsed as his posture, ‘and I have nothing to say to the press, thank you very much.’

  The door was closed almost before Connor was over the threshold, putting him face to face with Donna Blake. He was taller than her, but she did nothing to give ground, just looked up at him.

  ‘Anderson, huh?’ she said, a smile dancing in her eyes. ‘Funny, I think Danny would have mentioned someone like you. So, Mr Anderson, shall we have a chat? Off the record or on, all works for me.’

  Jameson’s warning about discretion echoed in Connor’s mind. The last thing he needed was to speak to a reporter. But still . . .

  He moved past her, heading back up the driveway. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Blake, but I have an appointment.’

  She followed him, walking quickly to keep up. ‘If you’re a cop, I’m Doctor Who,’ she said. ‘Who are you? And what did you want with Christopher Russell?’

  Connor stopped dead, turned to her. Again, she refused to back off, almost nose to chest with him, her jaw set, lips thin.

  ‘That really is none of your business, Ms Blake. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t think I will,’ she said. ‘You were wrong, Mr Anderson, if that’s your name. This is my business. It became that when I found Matt Evans’s head on my car roof last night.’ He heard a tremor in her voice, her skin paling as she spoke.

  Connor watched the memories battle the anger behind her eyes. He’d heard the news reports, knew about Evans. But why leave his body dumped by her car? A message from the killer? ‘You want a coffee?’ he asked.

  CHAPTER 45

  ‘So, how is sunny Stirling?’

  He had been expecting the call. There had been something in the caller’s voice when he’d told him about Matt Evans that had intimated this was not over. The contract might have been fulfilled, but the caller was obviously a man who enjoyed his work.

  ‘How do you think it is?’ he replied, surprised by the anger that rose in him. He had set this in motion, but to have the caller play with him, treat him like an amusement, phone whenever the whim took him? It was outrageous.

  ‘I think it’s giving you the perfect opportunity to polish your credentials and show yourself to be the man to take charge at a time of crisis,’ the reply came, the voice dry with threat. ‘I also believe it was a chance to reassure yourself that the investigation has no way to lead back to you.’

  He tightened his grip on the phone. ‘I’ve still to speak to Ford, the first detective to handle the case, but they know there’s a probable link between the murders. Your little flourish with Evans tipped them to that, so, no, I’m not reassured. Why the fuck did you have to make the murders so public in the first place? Would quiet little accidents not have done?’

  ‘I have my reasons. They don’t concern you. You need to relax. Three people are dead in two days. Of course the police are going to look for a connection between the victims. And I’ve given them one. The manner of death means they’re looking for one killer, one deranged lunatic, behind all this. And I assure you that the last thing I am is deranged. I took every precaution. There is no evidence linking me to the murders, or you for that matter. Unless, of course, there is some detail you failed to tell me when you first came to me.’

  Sudden panic turned his guts watery. The caller had been meticulous in his questioning on his possible links to the victims. He had told him everything, ensuring that all possible links to him or, more accurately, the man he had once been, were severed. The caller had checked, made arrangements, assured him there was nothing left to link him to this. But, still, the thought tormented him. Had he missed something? Some small trace of the past that could lead back to him?

  ‘No,’ he said finally, his voice more convincing this time. ‘There is nothing to lead back to me. Not now.’

  ‘Well, then, you have nothing to worry about. You’ve shown you’re in charge of the situation, found the investigation is going nowhere anywhere close to you. I understand you’ve got a press conference shortly. I suggest you enjoy your moment in the sun. And don’t worry, I’ll be watching you.’

  The phone died before he could reply. He stared dumbly at it for a moment, resisted the urge to reach out and support himself against the wall of the building. He looked out across the manicured expanse of lawn that surrounded the station like a green ocean. Felt panic claw in his throat. What had he done? He’d had no choice but to silence those who would do him harm. But at what cost? He’d invited a madman into his life. A madman who knew who he really was, what he had truly done. A killer who could expose him at any time, who could enforce his will over him with a single call.

  He smiled, little more than a baring of his teeth. He had swapped one blackmail for another, inviting in a monster at the same time. What could he do? No, what would he do?

  He stood, forced himself to become the man he was. Straightened his tie, took long, steadying breaths.

  The answer was simple. The caller had said it himself. He would shine in front of the press. He would show them he was in control.

  He just hoped he could believe the lie.

  CHAPTER 46

  With her car still impounded by the police as evidence, Donna was using taxis to get about, putting them on her credit card and hoping she could blag either Gina or Sky to foot the expenses bill. It was a risk, she thought, especially with money being so tight, but one worth taking.

  It paid off when Anderson led her to his car, which was parked just around the corner from Christopher Russell’s house. Donna was no car expert, but she knew an expensive motor when she saw it. It was a coupé, slung low to the ground. The man didn’t say a word, just plipped off the alarm and swung the passenger door open.

  ‘If you don’t want to accept a ride from a stranger you just met who, incidentally, you suspect of masquerading as someone he’s not, you’re welcome to walk,’ he said. ‘But I’m heading back into town. Offer of the lift is there.’

  She studied him for a moment, calculating. He was a big guy, heavy-featured but not in a thuggish way, bright green eyes that flitted around, taking everything in, only coming to rest on her face when he spoke to her. Smart-casual in a suit that was two pay grades above any CID officer she had ever met, expensive car – no way he was the copper he was pretending to be. So who was he, and was he a threat?

  Anderson shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a business card. ‘Look, Ms Blake, you’ve obviously figured out I’m not with the police. Fine. After your ordeal last night, I can’t blame you for being wary of strangers. So here’s my card. Give me a call if you want to talk, okay?’

  He passed it to her, then tracked round to the driver’s side of the car and
folded himself in. Donna glanced at the card. Connor Fraser, Close Protection Consultant, Sentinel Securities.

  Interesting.

  She let the engine start, a low, throaty burbling that promised speed, before she made her decision. She looked at the card again, then stepped forward even as she rooted around in her bag, swung the passenger door open and got in. ‘All right,’ she said, dropping into a leather seat more comfortable than her sofa. ‘Drive, Mr Fraser. But if you try any crap, I’ll use this.’

  She brandished a small cylinder at him, about half the size of a can of deodorant, white body with a black lid. Pepper spray. She’d bought it online after seeing a reporter get harassed when he was trying for an interview with a suspected child-porn dealer at a court hearing. Best to be prepared.

  Fraser looked at the can, and Donna felt a moment of absurd humour as she saw a smile crinkle the lines around his eyes. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, putting the car in gear. He hit the accelerator, pinning her back in her seat, the pepper spray rising up to point at the roof as she fought for balance. Her Caesarean scar gave a dull howl of protest. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  He didn’t say much else as he drove, just concentrated on guiding the car back into town. Donna felt her patience fray, then snap. Fine. She would play along. For now.

  ‘So, who exactly are you, Mr Fraser? And why is a “close protection consultant” poking around a murder case?’

  His eyes darted from the road to her, then back. ‘Let’s just say I’ve got a professional interest in the case,’ he said. ‘And since you seem to have the inside track on what’s happening, maybe we can help each other.’

  She wondered about that. No way this man would go on the record, let alone on camera. So how could he help her? And why should she help him? ‘What is it you think I can do for you?’ she said, the CS spray feeling cold and somehow fragile in her hands.

  ‘You said you found Matt Evans’s body this morning, that it was left at your car. I know that the first body was also beheaded, so I think there’s a link. Question is, what is it – and were you deliberately targeted?’

  A shudder forced her to move in her seat, the leather creaking under her. Memories of Matt Evans rose in her mind, threatening to overtake her. ‘How did you know the first body had been decapitated?’ she said. ‘The police convinced me not to reveal that in my report.’

  ‘I guessed they’d do that,’ Connor replied. ‘They would have wanted to keep that back to weed out any crank calls or false confessions. But you knew it, just like my contact did. Tells me two things.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘First, you’re not just a hack. You play by the rules, even if you push them a bit. Second, you’ve got good sources. And that might come in handy.’

  Frustration burnt Donna’s cheeks. Was that it? Was he just another Mark, ready to use her for what he needed? No way. ‘Look, Mr Fraser, if you think I’m just going to tell you what I know and then—’

  ‘I don’t think anything of the kind,’ he said, as he eased the car to a halt at a set of traffic lights. ‘You obviously have sources. I’m saying I can be one for you too, maybe give you something to keep you ahead of the press on this. But in return, I need you to help me answer a few questions.’

  She studied him for a moment, his patient eyes on her. They didn’t waver, didn’t roam to her chest or down to her legs, just stayed locked on her face. No aggression, no demands. He’d stated his terms. The decision on what happened next was hers.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘But forget the coffee. Can you get me to the police station on St Ninians? They’re giving a press conference there shortly. We can talk as you drive.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Fraser replied, slipped the car into first and drove away.

  CHAPTER 47

  Connor dropped Donna just up the road from Randolphfield, not wanting to get too close to the station for reasons she didn’t quite understand. Since he’d quit the PSNI, he hadn’t set foot in a police station and had no intention of breaking the habit now.

  His talk with Donna had proved informative, if not revelatory. He told her what Helen Russell’s husband had said about his wife, hoped that her source had given her something Ford hadn’t shared. That wasn’t the case, but the fact she knew about the beheading, Billy Griffin’s tattoo and the scale of the trauma that had been inflicted on him told Connor she had worthwhile contacts, who might come in handy.

  He watched her walk up the street, heading for the station. She was a strong woman – she’d have to be to shrug off finding a decapitated body beside her car. There was something else too: a defiant hardness that Connor could sense rather than see. It was as though she was trying to prove something, but what?

  Her clothes told him she wasn’t affluent, her shoes that she was doing okay. There were signs of recent weight loss in the slightly sagging folds of skin around her neck, and the dark patches around her eyes spoke of a night’s lost sleep. Understandable given what she had just seen but still there was something . . .

  He considered his next move. No word from Simon yet about his arrival, so he had some time to play with. He wanted to speak to Ford, see if they knew anything about Russell’s mysterious lover, or whether she’d had any links to Belfast.

  But even if she did, what would that prove? Hughes was dead, so whoever had left that book with Helen Russell’s body had known him, and the trick he had pulled on Connor. He had never reported the incident, and Simon had offered to alibi him, if necessary, so who did that leave? The answer was obvious. Hughes had obviously told someone about the beating, and what he had done to trigger it.

  But who had he told? And why were they sending him this message now? Was it to settle a debt to Hughes, to get retribution for the little shit now that he was dead? And how did it link with the other two murders? The tattoo on Billy Griffin’s body seemed to indicate a link to Loyalists, but with Jonny’s tribe or another branch?

  Connor sighed, leant back in his seat, thoughts swirling. Too many questions. Not enough answers.

  He was startled from his thoughts by the buzzing of his phone. He thumbed a button on the steering wheel. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Fraser, it’s Ford,’ the policeman said, his voice slightly distorted by the car’s speakers. ‘There’s a press conference just starting here, and I don’t want to be anywhere near it. Can you meet up? I’ve found something and I need to talk to you.’

  Connor leant forward, interested. ‘I’m nearby,’ he said, looking up at the police station. ‘Where do you want to meet?’

  The answer surprised him. ‘Can you get to the uni? I have business there, and the main SOCOs have cleared the site now so it should be quiet enough.’

  Connor mapped out the route in his mind. Not a problem. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Any chance you can give me a clue what this is about?’

  Silence filled the car, heavy, expectant. Then Ford grumbled a curse. ‘Seems Billy Griffin wasn’t the only one who liked body art,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Pathologist found a site on Helen Russell’s body that shows recent burning, the type you get from laser tattoo removal.’

  ‘Take it you managed to get a partial look at the tattoo. But what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Depends,’ Ford replied. ‘When you were in Belfast, did you have any run-ins with the Red Hand Defenders?’

  CHAPTER 48

  Driving through the wide gates to the Stirling University campus, Connor felt as though he was passing through a portal into a world of what-ifs. The uni had been on his shortlist of places to study when he was leaving school, and he knew it was his mother’s preferred option. A way to give him freedom but keep him close, with home in striking distance if he ever wanted or needed it.

  Not that the prospect was a remote possibility. He’d wanted to get away from Stirling, the weight of his dad’s expectation, but driving past the wide, glittering expanse of Airthrey Loch, the university buildings looking like a child’s block toys beneath the granite monolith of the
Wallace Monument, he found himself wondering: what if he had chosen to study here? What if he’d never moved to Belfast and seen the arrest that had caused him to join the police? What if he’d never met Karen, or Jonny Hughes? He would have been happy here, he knew. The campus appealed to him, and the international make-up of the student body would have made it easy for him to blend in, be another face in the crowd. He could even have pushed himself, used the facilities here to build his body. As the official ‘university of sporting excellence’, the approach would have been more scientific than throwing weights around at his granddad’s garage.

  What if, Connor, what if?

  He found a space in the small car park on the hill just before the hotel, separated from the entrance by a neatly trimmed hedge. A couple of uniforms drifted by, heading back down the hill to the campus. Made sense. The police would want to reassure the students, and the tutors, that they were on hand, and that what had happened was an aberration, rather than the new normal. He grunted a laugh at the thought. As if anything about this was normal.

  He locked the car, took a slow look around, then made for the hotel.

  The entrance was standard – automatic glass double doors parted with an airy rattle, revealing a tiled reception area with a couple of couches and coffee-tables. The far wall was dominated by a dark-wood reception desk, behind which a woman stood, phone held in the crook of her neck as she pecked away at the keyboard in front of her. She looked up when the doors opened, gave Connor a nervous smile of welcome, then focused back on the task at hand. The tinny Muzak was doing nothing to improve the oppressive atmosphere. He’d felt it before, at crime scenes and at venues when someone had tried to get too close to a client he was escorting. The dissipated energy of fatal violence clung to a place, making everyone wary that it could be reignited with the wrong word or thought.