No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  He spotted Ford in the bar area to the right of the desk, talking to a tall, dark-haired woman who had her back turned to him. He saw the policeman stiffen when he caught sight of him, take a step around the woman, blocking her from his view. Ford leant in close, kissed her cheek, then stepped forward, putting himself directly in Connor’s path and walking straight for him.

  So, Connor thought, he was avoiding the cop cliché of being unhappily married. He’d spotted the wedding ring on Ford’s finger when they had first met but made no judgement – many widowers and reluctant divorcés found it difficult to part with their ring, as though taking it off would confirm the truth, make it real. But this was proof. He was married – or having an affair.

  Connor pushed the thought aside as Ford stopped in front of him, taking the hand the policeman extended and shaking. ‘Fraser, thanks for coming,’ Ford said, his gaze set, as though he was willing Connor to focus on him and not the woman over his shoulder.

  ‘Not a problem. Though I must admit your call has me curious. You mentioned the Red Hand Defenders . . .’

  Ford glanced over his shoulder. Whoever that had been, he didn’t want her touched by any of this. Connor couldn’t argue with that. He wished none of it had touched him either.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Ford said.

  Connor followed him out, nodding to the receptionist, getting another smile in return. They took a right, skirted the front of the building, following the path until they were faced with a road that led to a large car park.

  Ford turned, looking back at the hotel. On the side of it, clamped to the wall, was a fire-escape staircase. At the bottom, police tape fluttered in the breeze, a uniformed officer trying not to look bored.

  ‘That’s where they found Helen Russell,’ Ford said.

  Connor felt cold sweat prickle on his back as he remembered the pictures he had seen, the book lying among the debris. ‘What’s this got to do with the Red Hand, Detective Ford?’

  Ford shook his head, a look Connor recognized all too well on his face. Later, it said. We’ll get to that later. ‘You have any dealings with them in Belfast?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’ He looked past Ford, back to the staircase, his mind flipping over the name as though it was an interesting shell he had found on the beach. The Defenders was a Loyalist group that had sprung out of discontent with moves towards peace after decades of bombing, shooting and other violence in Northern Ireland. They claimed responsibility for pipe bombings of Catholic families, and in 1999, they had killed Rosemary Nelson, a lawyer who represented Republican paramilitaries. There were rumours the Defenders were merely a cover for the UDA and other Loyalist groups, allowing them to keep up the violence and intimidation while claiming to honour the ceasefire, but Connor had never been involved in those cases. Or had he? Jonny Hughes dealt for the UDA. Was that a link? Anyway, why was Ford asking?

  Ford seemed to read the question on Connor’s face. ‘What I’m about to tell you is confidential. Only reason I’m telling you is that the moment Special Branch found out, the shutters came crashing down. I’m officially off the case, but you might be a way back in.’

  Connor straightened. ‘I’ll talk to you off the record, that was made clear to your boss, but, as I told you, I don’t want to make a formal statement unless I absolutely have to. I’m done with Belfast and all that shite. Last thing I want is to drag it all up here.’

  ‘Okay. For now,’ Ford said. ‘But we both agree that if we find something that could affect the case, you go on the record and I take it in. I want this bastard, Fraser, so does my boss, but I can’t let you go cowboying around and jeopardizing any leads we’re working on.’

  Connor pushed down the memory of Jonny Hughes lunging at him, baseball bat held aloft like a club. He wanted answers, needed them, but at what cost? That a killer might walk free on a technicality because he was too afraid or ashamed of what he had done?

  No. Fuck that. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘So tell me what you know. And what did you mean about Helen Russell trying to get rid of a tattoo?’

  CHAPTER 49

  Ford was noticeable by his absence from the press conference, having fielded questions at the previous one. From the look of it, Donna wasn’t the only one who noticed he wasn’t there: the chief constable, Guthrie, was sitting on the small stage, casting withering glances between Danny and the door to the briefing room.

  As with the day before, a table stood on the stage, a Police Scotland lectern set up at the middle seat where Guthrie sat. To his immediate left there was a cadaver in an ill-fitting suit, whom Donna recognized as Detective Chief Superintendent Martin Doyle. She’d heard stories about him, a former soldier turned copper who had worked his way up the ranks. Rumour was he was getting ready to jack it in. From the look of him on the stage, his body was ahead of his thinking.

  Next to him, just far enough away to be an observer rather than a participant, was the star attraction, Ken Ferguson. The justice secretary glared out at the assembled press, arms folded over a massive chest. Beads of sweat clung to his hairline, glistening in the lights, his double chin cascading over his collar. Donna had watched as he entered the room from a side door behind the stage: he had the walk of the cataclysmically overweight. Arms thrust out to the sides, head and shoulders thrown back as though to counterbalance the pendulous gut that hung over his waistband. He was a political heavyweight all right, just maybe not in the way he wanted to be perceived.

  A man who was the polar opposite of Ferguson loitered at the side of the stage. Donna studied him, a vague sense of familiarity at the back of her mind. Tall, wiry, with a suit that looked as though he had been stitched into it that morning, small, elegant glasses perched on a long, blade-like nose. While Ferguson sweated, this guy exuded a clinical manner. Beside him stood a woman in a sharp business suit, a folder barricading her chest, like a shield, her gaze fixed on Ferguson. Donna made a mental note to ask Danny who they were, made a bet with herself that they were officials from the party, here to make sure everyone got the message.

  And it was crystal clear. This was a police operation. The government was merely there to observe. Closely.

  She watched as Guthrie droned on, stuttering and muttering his way through an update on the investigation, which ultimately amounted to a lot of reassurance and very few new facts. She kept her head down when the briefing turned to the discovery of Matt Evans’s body, glad to have bagged a seat near the back of the room. She knew she was on thin ice reporting on a murder she had discovered and, technically, could be a suspect in. Fiona Clarke had made the point in no uncertain terms when they had spoken earlier on the phone. Given the work she had done so far, they were going to cut her a little slack, but if she got into anything sticky, or the police uttered the magic words ‘We are looking for one suspect in relation to these murders,’ it was game over for her.

  She jotted notes, pinged a text to Danny, watched as his phone lit up, drawing a frown from the wiry man standing next to him. Danny looked up, and the wiry man followed his gaze, eyes landing on Donna. It was the briefest glance, but it intensified her feeling that she knew him from somewhere else.

  Just who the hell was he?

  Her phone vibrated in her hand – a reply from Danny to her request for an on-camera with Ferguson when this was over: He’s doing a huddle out front, doesn’t want to get in the way of the main presser. Get out early and get a spot. Front steps.

  She sent a thank-you, focused back on Guthrie, who was now talking about tracing the victims’ movements and trying to establish any connections that would link them together and provide a motive.

  Donna wondered about that. Three victims – a small-time ned, a local councillor and a loudmouth talk-show host with a penchant for insulting politicians and anyone else he could think of. There must be a link other than the way they had died. But, then, was that even a link? Of the three, only two, the men, had been decapitated. From what little Danny had been willing to tell her, Helen Ru
ssell had been beaten as badly as the others, but her head had been, mostly, left on her shoulders. Why?

  She stirred from her thoughts, nodded to Gary, the lank-haired cameraman Fiona had sent from Edinburgh to put the report together with her. Excused herself, keeping low as though she was leaving a showing of the world’s worst movie, then headed for the door. She could feel eyes on her as she moved, sensed other reporters getting nervous. Where was she going? What did she know?

  She turned back into the room, saw a ripple of fidgeting and watch-checking sweep through the press pack, but the sudden happiness she felt at being back on the job died when she saw Mark looking at her with his easy smile.

  CHAPTER 50

  Simon was booked on the 14.45 flight from Belfast City, which would get him into Edinburgh at just after four o’clock. Connor left Stirling after his meeting with Ford, toyed with the idea of stopping in to see his gran on the way past Bannockburn, decided against it.

  He needed to drive. And think.

  Connor had always found there was something calming about driving. Being behind the wheel was like entering a Zen state, the focus needed to steer the car, accelerate, brake, change gear and check mirrors freeing another part of his mind – the place where his subconscious pondered the problems he was facing, stripped them down to find an answer. And that was what he desperately needed: answers.

  According to Ford, the post-mortem examination of Helen Russell had shown injuries consistent with those of the other two victims – severe trauma, especially pronounced around the joints. Connor remembered his time in Belfast, seeing men walking down the street, their stiff-legged hobble or palsied arms at odd angles marking them out. They had been knee-capped or fried. In the bad old days, paramilitaries on both sides had used those punishments as a way of exerting control through fear and intimidation. Since the end of the Troubles, the methods remained but the motivations changed as the paramilitaries turned their tactics to waging war on rival gangs. And the threat of having a kneecap or an elbow shattered with a bullet or a crowbar was a language everyone understood, which was probably why the volume of such attacks had risen instead of falling since the bombs and balaclavas had been put in storage.

  The post-mortem had also thrown up another commonality: the presence of a tattoo or, at least, its ghostly after-image on Helen Russell’s body. It had been found just above her left hip, a small, angry cluster of healing blisters, the shape of the tattoo a tracing below the wounded skin.

  Connor remembered the image Ford had shown him – what looked like a letter G surrounded by four As, their apexes pointing outward, like the points on a compass. ‘Took a little while to track it down,’ Ford told him, ‘but we found it eventually. It’s the mark of something called Alba Gheal Ann An Aonadh, 4AG as they liked to be called. Sprang up in 1978 or ’79, around the time of the first devolution referendum. Literally means “White Scotland in the Union”, and was mostly made up of bored skinheads looking for an excuse to cause trouble. But guess who they got some help from?’

  Connor didn’t have to guess. The answer was obvious. Back then, it was common for paramilitary groups to look for allies and enemies across the water. And somehow, 4AG had forged links with the Red Hand Defenders.

  So, Helen Russell had been a member of 4AG. But the work to remove the tattoo was recent, according to the pathologist, state-of-the-art laser work rather than the old techniques, which more or less boiled down to acid burns or sanding the tattooed area down to the muscle. Why had she waited until now to have it removed? What had triggered the decision? And how did it link her to Billy Griffin? The age difference precluded them knowing each other in the seventies: Billy would have been little more than a toddler in 1979, with Russell already into her mid-twenties. So how were they linked?

  And why had they both had to die?

  Whatever was going on, Billy Griffin was the key. According to what Ford had told Connor, he had disappeared without a trace following his release from Barlinnie after his little stunt in George Square. His last known address was a flat in the Govan area of Glasgow, but officers who had checked the place after his body had been identified had found only an empty strip of rubble-strewn land where the flats had been, another demolition of the past to make way for the regeneration of the area.

  So where had Billy gone after he had been released from prison? What had he done to survive – and how had he ended up decapitated and dumped in Stirling? Whatever he had been doing was almost certainly illegal – there were no records of any National Insurance payments or even of benefits being claimed since his release. He was a ghost, working in the shadow industries where tax was a myth and employment rights meant the right to keep quiet about what you were doing.

  The thought came to Connor as he was passing Grangemouth, the industrial heart of the town dominated by the apocalyptic sprawl of an old oil refinery, spewing white-grey smoke into the pale blue of the afternoon sky. He smiled, then tapped a button on the steering wheel, accessing the hands-free phone option. Told his phone to do a Google search, found the website, told it to dial the number.

  The ring of a phone filled the car, followed by a dull clunk as it was answered.

  ‘MacKenzie Haulage,’ a voice that was no stranger to cigarettes said.

  ‘Hi, could I speak to Mr MacKenzie, please?’

  Boredom slowed the voice at the end of the phone to a drawl. ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘It’s Connor Fraser. He’ll remember me – we met at his daughter’s place yesterday. I think he’ll want to speak to me. I have a favour to ask.’

  CHAPTER 51

  The huddle arranged for Ferguson after the press conference was, in truth, little more than a scrum. The ministerial car had been brought round to the front of the building and conveniently parked in one of the bays opposite the main door. The only place for Ferguson to stop was just in front of the Police Scotland sign that hung over the front of the station. It made a strong image for the cameras, and Donna was forced to admire the political staging. No wonder they had won three elections.

  Guthrie emerged from the station first, flanked by Doyle and Danny. They were followed by Ferguson, then the woman and the man Donna had seen at the press conference. Again, there was a momentary twinge of recognition, something about the way he moved, the small, birdlike dart of the head to whisper in Ferguson’s ear. But then the cameras started popping and flashing, the questions were lobbed at them, and Donna was swept along with the story.

  The woman stepped forward, placing herself between the press and Ferguson, who surveyed them with a smile that was as expansive as his waistline. The press conference was over, and he had moved from stern overseer to a more comfortable role: playing justice secretary, defender of police and public, friend to the press.

  The woman held up her hand, calling for calm. ‘As you’ll appreciate, Mr Ferguson is on a tight schedule, but he has a few minutes to take your questions. So, please, wait until you’re called, identify yourself and state your question.’ She surveyed the crowd, the assembled reporters straining like children in a classroom to be picked first. Her eyes roved across the pack, looking for . . . ‘Ah, yes, you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m Mark Sneddon, Chronicle. Mr Ferguson, there have been claims that the investigations into these murders have been hampered by lack of resources in Police Scotland. Do you believe this is the case and, if so, what steps are you taking to address this, not just here but across Scotland?’

  Ferguson’s smile faded to the expression of a man disappointed to be asked a question by someone who clearly didn’t understand what was going on. ‘As you know, the Scottish government has made resourcing of the police across the country a priority. And while operational matters are for the officers in charge to comment on, I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to ensure that . . .’

  Donna tuned him out – if she wanted that line she could pick it up from any of the dozen press releases it had already appeared in. The question was
a no-brainer: it sounded tough but meant nothing, gave the minister the chance to reinforce the government line and keep away from the story.

  She studied the woman smiling and nodding along with Ferguson as he spoke. She had found Mark Sneddon, a print reporter without a cameraman, in a sea of TV cameras and big-name news presenters? Nah, the question had been a plant: the woman had worked it out with Mark beforehand, known she would go to him first.

  Question was, who was using whom?

  Another surge forward as Ferguson stopped speaking. The woman’s eyes roved across the press pack again, landing on Donna for a second, then moving on. Donna forced herself to think. Two more questions, max. She needed to stay low-key, keep away from Matt’s murder but get a shot in, keep her name linked to the story.

  The thought came to her suddenly. Connor Fraser’s words: You play by the rules, but you’re not afraid to push them a bit.

  She smiled, the idea taking root. Something that kept them away from Matt Evans’s murder but moved the story on. Something it was unlikely the rest of the press knew. Unless, of course, they had, like Connor Fraser, paid a visit to Christopher Russell before the press conference.

  ‘Just one more question,’ the woman called, her eyes skimming across the crowd. Donna raised her mic, didn’t wait to be picked, just started talking, her voice rising to cut across the throng. Directed the question straight at the main event, Ferguson, felt an electric thrill as the woman who had been controlling proceedings until that point glared at her.

  ‘Mr Ferguson, Donna Blake, Sky News. I understand that Councillor Helen Russell, who was found at the Stirling Court Hotel, was at a cross-party reception at the Scottish Parliament sponsored by the Tories, the night before she was discovered. Were you at the event and, if so, did you see Mrs Russell?’

  Ferguson smiled, coughed, played for time, glanced around, looking for an answer from the woman or the maddeningly familiar man who was with him. Found none, started talking. He quickly regained his composure, falling back on well-practised sound bites about ‘attending a wide range of parliamentary events and, yes, I seem to remember being there, but I can’t recall seeing Mrs Russell’.