Connor forced himself to lean back, give Simon space, his fury at the betrayal arguing with the vague hope Simon was actually on his side. But he had lied. And then there was the book, the message . . .
I know people who tell me things.
‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice as cold as the tiles on the wall, ‘no bullshit, Simon, what the fuck is going on. If you’re not working for Hughes, then why are you here? And why didn’t you tell me? Did the PSNI send you over? To check on me?’
Simon shook his head, a crooked smile on his lips. ‘Nothing like that,’ he said. ‘But you are being checked on.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
Simon glanced to his right, as though he could see through the toilet wall. He straightened, tried to smooth the T-shirt crumpled by Connor’s grip. ‘Let’s not leave the wee girl waiting,’ he said. ‘’Mon, I’ll buy you another pint. And I can put it on expenses. After all, Lachlan Jameson is paying. The least the old bastard can do is stand us a jar.’
CHAPTER 59
Parents dispatched after a raft of tentative questions about how her day was, and if she was coping after ‘what happened’, Donna stood at the front door of the flat, soaking in the silence.
The confrontation with Ford had been unexpected, and gruelling. She found his sudden appearance on the street put her off balance. He had pushed her hard on who had leaked to her the details on Billy Griffin’s murder, how she had managed to get those pictures at the uni and what her relationship with Matt Evans had been like. ‘You see, Ms Blake,’ he told her, ‘three murders and you’re a common factor in all of them, popping up like an unwanted aunt at Christmas. So, I’ve got to ask, why are you so closely linked to all of this?’
It was a good question, which put her even further off balance. She had seen the first murder as a way to get her career back on track, escape from the backwater of Valley FM into the deeper waters of the national media. She’d been so focused on that, on getting her byline back into the story, that she had allowed herself to be sucked in by Mark, used in his pathetic little ploy to buy himself a job with the government. But now another two people were dead – one of them dumped, literally, in front of Donna’s nose.
So what was she doing involved in this? Was it worth it?
She moved through the flat quietly, found her way to Andrew’s room. He was huddled in his cot, the covers pulled up to his chin, his right arm defiantly on top as ever. She felt a stab of melancholy as she remembered it was the same pose Mark adopted when he slept.
Mark. She should have given him to Ford, let him deal with the awkward questions. So why hadn’t she? She owed him nothing, no matter how he’d tried to spin his little ‘favour’ the previous day, and it would get Ford off her back if she just gave him Mark’s name.
And yet . . .
She rubbed her eyes, felt the weariness settle on her like a weight. Saw a flash of Matt Evans’s dead, leering grin in the darkness, snapped her eyes open and swallowed, throat clicking. She crossed the room quickly, peered into Andrew’s cot and felt comforted by the regular rise and fall of his chest.
She cursed when she heard her phone ring in the living room. Reached out to smooth Andrew’s hair, found herself not wanting to touch him, overtaken by the irrational thought that she would somehow infect his dreams with her nightmares. She swore silently, then hurried from the room to silence the phone. Fumbled through her bag as it rang, convinced it would switch to voicemail at any moment, half hoping it would.
No such luck.
She read the display, saw an unfamiliar number. Felt a sudden dread creep through her, the urge to click the phone off and ignore it flitting through her mind. ‘Hello?’
Heavy breathing down the line. A soft sniff. Then a voice. Female. Low. The precision of a Morningside accent hardened into something brutal by hatred.
‘Is that . . . is that Donna Blake?’
‘It is. Who’s calling?’ Donna said, not wanting to know the answer.
‘Is he there?’
Donna felt her guts chill even as heat flashed across her cheeks. ‘Is who there? Who is this?’
‘This is Emma. Emma Sneddon. And I’m asking if he’s there. You know, my husband. Mark. Is he there, Ms Blake?’
Donna felt as though she had been plunged into an ice-cold pool. She tried to breathe, found her lungs were useless. Her heart hammered in her ears, even as something brittle clawed its way up her throat. ‘I, ah, I’m not sure what you—’
‘Please don’t,’ Emma said. ‘I thought there was something wrong when he said he was going to be staying in Stirling to cover a story. Knew it wouldn’t be long until he found his way back to your door. So I decided to pay him a visit. But he’s not here, and the hotel staff say he’s not been back since early this afternoon.’
Donna felt the room spin, a kaleidoscope of thoughts crashing through her mind. Closed her eyes. Forced herself to think. ‘Hold on. You’re in Stirling now. At the Golden Lion?’
A sneer down the line. ‘So you know where he’s staying. Why doesn’t that surprise me? Is he with you now? Is he hiding from his phone or did you ask him to switch it off in case the wifey interrupted while you were fucking?’
Donna felt anger spark in her, seized it, used it to burn away the shock and confusion crashing through her mind. She spoke slowly, deliberately. ‘Now listen, I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong. Mark is not here, has never been here and never will be here. Yes, I saw him earlier – we were discussing the story we’re both covering, if you must know, but I’ve not seen him since.’
‘So you’re saying he’s not there?’
‘Yes!’ Donna barked, cringing as her voice rose, not wanting to wake Andrew. ‘I saw him earlier this afternoon at the press conference and then at the Lion. I’ve not seen or heard from him since. If he’s not answering your calls, that’s your problem, not mine.’
‘So where is he?’ Emma asked, more to herself than Donna.
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Emma said, ‘but when he wasn’t here, I just thought . . .’
You just thought he was fucking me again. A shard of ice roiled in the pit of Donna’s stomach. She forced the chill into her voice. ‘I don’t care what you thought, Mrs Sneddon. He’s not here. Check with his newsdesk – he’s probably out chasing a lead. And don’t call me again.’
She hung up before Emma could reply, then tossed the phone onto the couch as though it was diseased. She fought back the tears burning behind her eyes.
She knows. Fuck. She knows!
Reluctantly, she reached for the phone. Called Mark’s number. Got his voicemail. Left a curt message, then hung up. Considered. Her phone told her it was a little after eight o’clock. She’d left Mark at just before three. Five hours to go quiet? That was nothing when he was working a story, except . . .
The image of Matt Evans’s ruined corpse rose in her mind again. She thumbed through the phone, found the number she was looking for. Hit call.
‘Newsdesk.’
‘Brian? Brian, it’s Donna Blake, how you doing? . . . Yeah, long time no speak. Look, after a wee favour. You heard from Mark at all? I know he was up here on a story, but I’ve not seen him.’
Brian sighed heavily, and Donna could picture him in her mind. Brian Donald. Boring Bri, they used to call him at the Westie, mostly down to his taste for wearing cords, dull ties, and his hair in a rigid side parting. But there was nothing boring about the way Brian Donald worked: he was, quite simply, the best night editor Donna had ever seen. Incisive, fair, balanced, and bereft of one single fuck as to what the advertising men thought was popular or would sell papers. He was a dying breed, a journalist committed to telling the story and nothing more. Which was why their boss, Charlie Banks, had banished him to the night job of watching the wires and reacting to any big stories. The last thing Banks needed was a popular, talented journalist on the desk, challenging his style o
f rule through fear and loathing.
‘No, I’ve not seen that useless twat, or heard from him. He was meant to ping me a wrap after the press conference, got nothing from him. And I’ve been trying his fucking phone all afternoon without a reply. He on the pish up there?’
Unease unfurled. ‘Not that I’ve seen. Thanks, Brian, I’ll give him a nudge if I see him.’
‘Make it a fucking left hook, would you?’ Brian replied, then added: ‘And don’t be a stranger, Donna. I cannae pay much, but I’ll take any copy you fancy sending over, especially with Mark MIA.’
She murmured her thanks, promised to stay in touch, then ended the call, the silence of the room crowding in on her as her mind raced. She could buy Mark avoiding his wife or her – that was to be expected. But not to file his take on the hottest story of the day, one that was guaranteed to get him the splash?
No. No way. Something was wrong.
Suddenly aware of the gloom in the room, she headed for the door and switched on all the lights, trying to dispel her dark thoughts with the shadows.
Ford’s words now: Three murders and you’re a common factor in all of them, popping up like an unwanted aunt at Christmas. So, I’ve got to ask, why are you so closely linked to all of this?
Three murders? Mark was missing. Had it just become four? No. That was paranoia, insanity. And yet . . . She shuddered, glanced around, the flat suddenly too big for just her and Andrew, transformed from a safe home to a cage. She headed for the hall, dug into her pocket for the card she had been given earlier that day. Studied it.
Whatever was going on, Ford was right. She was a common factor. And here she was, alone with her son, when a maniac who took people’s heads was out there. She could tell herself it was a coincidence, just Mark being his usual selfish self, but deep down she knew that for the lie it was.
She had started out wanting to report this story. Now she was part of it. And in that instant, as she started to dial the number on the card she held, Donna knew two things.
She needed protection.
She needed Connor Fraser.
CHAPTER 60
Connor marvelled at the performance Simon put in as the night wore on. He was the life and soul, carrying the conversation, making all the right jokes, showing just enough interest and teasing Connor just enough to win Jen over. For his part, Connor felt like an actor thrown on stage without a script. He nodded at the right moments, laughed along when needed, kept his body language casual. But all the time he kept his focus on Simon. On the man he thought he had known.
The friend who had been lying to him.
Jen seemed to sense his distance, kept sending him curious glances. Not that he could blame her. With this and the way he had acted in her flat the day before, she must be having serious reservations about Connor Fraser.
She finished her drink, pushing the empty glass across the table to signal she was done. ‘Right, well,’ she said, making a show of adjusting her hoody and sitting up straighter. ‘As I said, I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, so I’ll leave you boys to it.’
‘Sure I can’t persuade you to have another?’ Simon asked, giving her his best disarming smile. ‘You leave, I’m going to have to deal with this one all night.’
Connor glanced up at him. Deal with this one?
‘Nah, really, I can’t,’ Jen said, rising from her seat, Connor and Simon mirroring her. ‘An early shift at the gym is grim enough, but with a hangover? No thanks.’
‘Fair enough,’ Connor said. ‘C’mon, we’ll walk you back.’
She looked at him, gaze cooling. ‘Who do you think you are – Paulie? I’ll be fine, Connor. Stay here and catch up with Simon. I’ll see you soon.’
Before he could say anything else, she kissed his cheek, squeezing his arm as she did so. He felt the heat of her skin on his linger as she pulled away and looked into his eyes. ‘Call me tomorrow, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But at least text me when you get back. Been a few things going on in town recently, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
She rolled her eyes and cocked her head, but Connor could see she was pleased at his response. Wasn’t sure why he felt pleased as well.
‘All right,’ she said, turning away from him. ‘Simon, nice to meet you. Hopefully see you again before you go.’
‘Sure you will. I’m not letting him keep you to himself.’
Jen dipped her chin to her chest to hide her blush. Then she headed for the door. Connor watched her go, again felt the urge to go after her, make sure she got home safely. But then he saw another figure get up and follow her. A figure who had been hugging the bar, out of sight. A figure with a slight limp, one hand encased in a bandage that seemed to glow in the low light of the bar.
Paulie.
Connor smiled. One problem solved. Jen would be safe. He turned to Simon, the good-humoured mask he had been wearing for Jen slipping from his face.
‘Talk,’ he said. ‘And don’t lie to me, Simon. I’m not in the mood for any shit.’
Simon held up his hand, drained his pint. ‘Whole truth. Honest, Connor. But let’s get out of here. Suddenly I’m not that thirsty any more.’
They headed back up onto Bow Street, then followed the long downhill stretch that led away from the castle and back to the heart of the town. Connor tried not to think of Cowane’s Hospital as they walked, the body that had been found there.
Simon was looking ahead, the muscle in his jaw pulsing, as though he was chewing on the words he was trying to say. Connor watched him, determined that, this time, Simon would be the one to speak first. As they walked, he felt the cold, hard weight of the gun pushing into the small of his back, like an invisible hand propelling him along the street.
‘Jameson called me as soon as you asked him for a contact with the local police,’ Simon said, not looking away from the street. ‘He was worried that you were going to cause a scene for the firm and, from the way you were talking, that there might actually be a threat to you. Who better to call than your old partner? I arrived yesterday, flew into Edinburgh, hired a car and drove straight here. Checked the place out, made sure you were okay. Saw what you did to that twat who noised you up at the flat – nice work by the way. Stayed in town, back there.’ He turned slightly, pointing vaguely in the direction of a high-end hotel further up the hill that was popular for conferences and weddings. ‘Then I drove the car back this morning, dumped it at the airport, and was waiting to meet you.’
Connor nodded, anger and relief battling for supremacy in his mind. ‘And that’s it? No more? Lachlan called you because he was worried about me making a splash and dragging Sentinel’s name through the mud?’
Simon stopped. ‘Well, you can’t really blame the man, Connor. You do have a tendency to make a mess when you lose your temper.’ The smile on his face faded under Connor’s stony gaze. ‘But, no, it wasn’t just that. He was worried about you, Connor. Said he wanted me to see if there was a credible threat to you. Look, if you don’t believe me, call the man yourself.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I will,’ Connor said. But what would he say? Thanks for sending an old friend to look after me, boss, but fuck you for thinking I’d be dumb enough to make a mess on my own doorstep?
Questions. Too many questions.
He looked at Simon again, studying him. He wanted to believe him and, in truth, it was exactly the type of move Lachlan Jameson would pull. Control the situation from afar. It was no different from what he had done when he’d asked about Robbie’s performance on the Benson job. Except this time he had been the one under observation. The thought didn’t sit well with him.
He took a breath. Whether or not he believed Simon was almost irrelevant – either way, he was part of this, which meant Connor had to keep him close. ‘So what did you find out on your snooping?’ he asked.
‘Well, I—’
Connor’s phone rang, cutting Simon off. He pulled it out, ready to kill the call, when he saw the number. Gave Simon a hold-that-
thought look and hit answer.
‘Mr MacKenzie, thanks for getting back to me.’
‘Aye, whatever. I’m doing this for Jennifer, Fraser, not you. Clear?’
‘Totally,’ Connor said. ‘Did you manage to find anything out?’
‘Aye, yer fuckin’ right I did,’ MacKenzie growled. ‘Who was this kid, Fraser, and what was he to you? And how is my Jen involved in this?’
‘He’s just someone I need to track down for work, Mr MacKenzie. He’s no threat to you or Jennifer, I swear it. Do you think I’d let anything happen to her?’
A pause, the heavy breathing of an old bull echoing down the line, a father considering his options. ‘You best not, Fraser, believe me. But Jen seems to like you, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Billy Griffin was—’
A beep on the line told Connor another call was coming in. Irritated, he swiped the phone from his ear, staring at the screen. Saw Donna Blake’s number flash up, hit decline.
‘Sorry, Mr MacKenzie, had another call coming in. What were you saying?’
CHAPTER 61
Home for Billy Griffin was a flat in a nondescript pebble-dashed estate in Castle Vale. The block stood opposite the high fences separating it from Cornton Vale Prison, for Scotland’s female convicts. Connor vaguely remembered a story about refurbishment work taking place on the site.
The Audi stood out like a sore thumb among the scattered assortment of mid-range Vauxhalls, Renaults and Fords in what looked like a small car park serving the prison. Connor pushed down vague unease at leaving the car. The street was quiet and well lit, the cameras that loomed over the fence from the prison presumably deterring any problems with staff cars.
And, besides, he didn’t intend to be there for long.
It hadn’t taken Duncan MacKenzie long to establish Griffin’s movements, given the notoriety he had gained from his little stunt in George Square. As Connor had expected, he had dropped out of the mainstream after leaving Barlinnie, opting for work that was cash in hand and no questions asked.
No Man's Land Page 24
