No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  ‘The fuck was that all about?’ Simon asked, as Connor slipped into the driver’s seat of the Audi.

  ‘Insurance policy,’ Connor said as he fired the engine. Settling into the seat, he felt his T-shirt plaster itself to his back, the cold sweat that covered him acting like icy glue.

  The studio was only a ten-minute drive from Donna Blake’s flat, on streets that were quiet. Connor kept to the speed limit, not wanting to attract undue attention. He needn’t have worried: turning off the main road into the industrial estate where the radio station was based was like falling off the world. He had expected a police car or an officer stationed at the entrance, but there was nothing. He remembered Ford’s words – We’ve only so many bodies on hand – and realized that whoever had been stationed there had been reassigned. Made sense. The main crime scene was a car park, and that would have been picked clean by the forensics team by now, Donna Blake’s car taken away for further testing. Which left the office. Not a primary crime scene, just adjacent to one, which meant that the police could seal it up and return to it when they had the time and the manpower.

  Which gave Connor an opportunity.

  He drove past it, a squat, ugly building with a gaudy Valley FM sign stuck in the grass and peeling red paint on the awning above shuttered glass double doors. He looked around for CCTV cameras or anything that would indicate a police presence, saw nothing but the yellow and black ‘Police: Do Not Cross’ tape that surrounded the building and fluttered listlessly in the breeze. He pulled around the corner, tucking the Audi into a pool of darkness under a tree. Killed the engine, looked at Simon.

  ‘You sure about this? We’re going to break a police cordon and search a potential crime scene. That’s bad enough for me, but you’ve still got a career to think about, Simon.’

  Simon grinned in the gloom, teeth glinting in the light from the Audi’s dash. ‘Catch yerself on, Connor. I’m not letting you go in there to have all the fun. Besides, we both know you want me right beside you so you can keep an eye on me.’

  Connor shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. Simon was right, but the notion sounded absurd. He got out of the car without another word, Simon following him. They ducked under the cordon and walked quickly up the path to the double doors, Simon riffling through the keys as he moved, dropping to the ground for the shutter lock in one fluid movement.

  Connor heard the lock click, winced as the shutters squealed and rattled up their tracks. Simon stopped them halfway, leaving just enough space for them to access the front door. He ducked under and saw the police tape pulled across the middle of the two doors. There was a soft snicking sound, and a blade suddenly winked in Simon’s hand.

  ‘Where the fuck did you get that?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Says the man carrying a cannon,’ Simon said, as he sliced the police tape and unlocked the door. ‘I’m going to slip in and disarm the alarm. You follow and pull the shutters down behind you.’

  Connor watched as Simon stepped into the blackness. Heard the beep of an alarm as the motion sensor tripped, felt his pulse raise as he heard Simon punching keys. What if Donna had given them the wrong code? What if Simon had remembered it wrongly or keyed it in wrong? What if—

  The beeping ended abruptly. ‘Clear,’ Simon called.

  Connor took a deep, steadying breath, pulled the shutter down behind him and stepped inside, pulling out his pencil torch.

  It was just as Donna had described it, a large, open-plan space, untidy desks dotted around it. The back of the room was taken up by a booth that was separated into two sections – a production unit and the main recording studio. Through the glass window, Connor could see a mic hanging on a boom arm. He wondered how many times Donna Blake had sat in front of it.

  ‘Here,’ Simon called, snapping Connor from his thoughts. Connor swung the torch in an arc, saw Simon standing next to a desk that was neater and less cluttered than the others. Just as Donna had said, a Saltire hung from an Anglepoise lamp at the corner of the desk, one end twisted into a loose knot and looped around the neck of a small teddy bear with a Union flag cape draped down its back. Donna had told him that no one in the office could decide if it was Evans’s idea of a joke or a deliberate attempt to bait people into confronting him. But, with what he now knew, Connor suspected it had another meaning. Something deeper. An in-joke between Evans and one other person.

  Connor stepped forward, swung the torch over the desk. Nothing there of interest. A notepad sat beside a laptop, which was patched into a desktop monitor. Donna had told them all the laptops were password-protected but, still, it was worth a look.

  ‘You check that,’ Connor said. ‘I’ll look in the drawers.’

  Simon cracked the laptop and hit the power key, its tinny bong as it powered up loud in the gloomy silence. Connor watched him for a moment, then turned his attention to the three drawers on the right of the desk.

  He opened the first, again the question of what he was looking for occurring to him. Something that provided the missing link between Evans and Griffin, something that made sense of all this.

  He heard the soft chatter of keys. ‘Password,’ Simon muttered. ‘What the fuck could that be?’

  ‘Try Billy,’ Connor said, speaking before he thought about it.

  More chattering from the keyboard, followed by the chirp to tell them the password was wrong. ‘No go,’ he said, ‘and if this is a normal log-in system, we’ve only got two more tries before it locks us out.’

  Connor bit his lip. Think. Think. He kept his own passwords random, but knew other people were less contentious, opting for something simple and memorable, something with meaning to them. The name of a pet or a loved one. But how did he figure that out with a perfect stranger? ‘Gimme a minute,’ he said, turning his attention back to the drawers.

  The first was a disappointment, holding only pens, a stapler and a stack of Post-it notes. The second and third were slightly more promising, with old notepads and a flash drive. Connor lifted them out, pocketed the flash drive, then riffled through the notepads. Nothing interesting, mostly notes on stories, ideas for interview subjects and topics, along with a few newspaper cuttings, headlines highlighted, notes scrawled in the margins.

  ‘Any other ideas?’ Simon asked, impatience edging his voice. ‘Would he make it as easy as his own name? Fuck it, why not try?’ He typed. Got the bing of rejection. ‘Ah, fuck it. Let’s take it with us, man, work it out later.’

  Connor nodded agreement, looked at the notepads in front of him. Couldn’t see any reason to take them. Besides, leaving the drawers totally empty, along with the disappearance of the laptop and the slicing of the police tape, would be like leaving a huge ‘We only searched this desk’ sign for the police.

  He dropped the notepads back into the drawers, pushed them shut. ‘Aye. Come on, then. We’ve got those notepads and the laptop, maybe we can . . .’

  The bottom drawer had stuck.

  Connor looked down, thinking he had overfilled it, one of the notepads catching on the runner. But, no, it was only half full, the notepads sitting well below the lip of the drawer.

  He tried it again. It refused to slide home.

  He dropped to his knees, pulled the drawer all the way out. As he’d suspected, it had caught at the end of the runner, and he angled it up to pull it clear. Set the drawer aside, reached into void space and felt around.

  A pulse of excitement as his hand touched something cool and smooth. He ran his fingers over it, finding its edges, then pulled it out and reached back in to make sure he hadn’t missed anything else. He hadn’t.

  ‘What’s that?’ Simon said, leaning over.

  ‘No idea,’ Connor said, opening the laminated envelope file. It might be nothing, just a folder that had slipped down the back of the drawers and been forgotten. He slipped out a sheaf of papers and trained the torch on them. His breath caught as he processed what he was seeing, the pressure rising behind his eyes as though he was straining against a heavy w
eight in the gym rather than holding a few pieces of paper.

  Simon’s voice seemed to come from very far away. ‘Connor? What is it? What?’

  Connor stood up abruptly, felt the world sway. Looked across the desk, at the small display there. ‘Try teddy bear,’ he whispered, his tongue and lips numb.

  ‘What? Oh . . .’ Simon typed, the screen flaring to life as the laptop kept booting. ‘How the fuck did you figure that out?’ he asked. ‘Connor, what?’

  Connor bent down, slid the drawer back into place. It fitted perfectly now. A lot of things did. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Grab the laptop and let’s get out of here.’

  Simon wasted a second on a confused look, then got moving. They retraced their steps, both careful to touch only what they absolutely had to, even though they were wearing gloves. Connor stepped out into the night, grabbed the shutters as Simon reset the alarm, then pulled it down behind them. The police would find that the cordon tape was cut, but it was a neat slice, so at first glance it would look all right.

  Not that it was a real concern. Not now.

  They hurried back down the path and to the car, the file seeming to pulse with heat under Connor’s arm. Back in the Audi, he had the engine fired and the car in gear before Simon had had a chance to speak. He was just clearing the industrial estate when a chirp from the stereo told him he had a call. He thumbed the answer button on the steering wheel. ‘Connor Fraser.’

  A low whisper down the line. ‘Fraser, it’s Paulie. You’d better get back here. Looks like we’ve got company.’

  Connor floored the accelerator, the car roaring to life, the sound echoing in his chest, seeming to resonate somewhere deep within.

  ‘Connor, what the fuck’s going on, man?’ Simon asked, raising his voice over the sound of the engine.

  ‘I know why they died,’ Connor said. ‘Donna was right. She is in danger. And – fuck! – I put Jen right in harm’s way too.’

  Simon stared at him for a moment, then turned to face front. ‘Drive,’ he said. ‘Forget the guilt. Just fucking get us there. You can fill me in on the way.’

  CHAPTER 65

  Paulie was leaning on his car when Connor pulled up, smoking a fat cigar and blowing the smoke lazily into the night. He seemed relaxed, satisfied, like a man enjoying a smoke after a fine meal. Connor got out of the car, the acrid tang of the cigar hitting his nose as he approached. He glanced around for the problem Paulie had called about but saw nothing except the darkened street and the light still burning in Donna Blake’s flat.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  Paulie smiled, showing off the yellowed stumps of his teeth. Rolled himself off the car and stood upright, the outline of Connor’s gun obvious in the awkward way his rumpled jacket hung from him. Connor felt Simon’s eyes on him. Ignored it.

  ‘Had a wee, ah, incident,’ Paulie said, as he walked round the car. ‘Taxi pulls up about fifteen minutes ago, guy gets out. Twitchy little fucker, all jerky movements and big eyes, like he’d taken a few too many hits of speed.’

  Connor looked around the emptiness of the street, felt a sour dread curdle in his gut. ‘What made you think he was a threat?’

  Paulie sneered, tension rippling through his shoulders. ‘I knew,’ he said, voice as dark as the shadows. ‘He had the look, seen it enough times. And he headed straight for yer woman’s block of flats.’

  Connor snapped a look between the flats and Paulie. ‘Hold on, you’re not telling me that you let . . .’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Paulie laughed. ‘You think I’d let anyone into that flat after what you said earlier? Course I fucking wouldn’t.’

  ‘So, what happened to him?’ Connor asked, unease rising. He didn’t like where this was going.

  A smile blossomed on Paulie’s face, warm, generous and utterly authentic. For an instant, it changed him from a brooding thug to a kindly uncle, full of good humour and content with the world. In that instant, Connor understood Paulie was the worst kind of predator: a monster without hesitation, who only felt pleasure in the pain of others. ‘Decided to keep him for us to have a little chat with, didn’t I?’

  He walked to the rear of the car, fiddled for a moment and opened the boot.

  ‘Squirrelly little shit, I’ll give him that,’ Paulie said, standing aside to let Simon and Connor look at the captive.

  Wide, terrified eyes gazed up at them, framed in sockets that were already turning a dusty purple from the punches he had received. Blood was caked around his nose, dark and lurid against the waxy sheen of his pale, sweat-soaked skin.

  ‘Puh-please!’ the man said, his jaw chattering as though he were sitting in a bucket of ice. ‘Please don’t hurt me! I’ll stay quiet, I promise! I was only joking around earlier on. I would never, could never . . .’

  Connor reached into the boot, grabbed a handful of damp shirt and hauled. Weak fingers skittered across his wrists as he pulled the man out and dragged him to the kerb. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  He obeyed, feverish eyes darting between Connor, Simon and Paulie. Connor could understand his terror. He’d been put in an indefensible position, three men looming over him. Not good.

  Connor hunkered down, getting face to face with the man. He felt the briefest moment of recognition, washed away by the reek of stale sweat and beer that seemed to roll off him in waves. ‘Who are you? Why were you trying to get to Donna Blake?’

  ‘Donna? Donna who? I don’t know who you’re—’

  Connor leant forward, unblinking. ‘Don’t bullshit me. My friend here,’ he nodded up at Paulie, ‘said you were heading for her block of flats. If you weren’t going to see her, who were you going to see?’

  The man looked down, took a deep breath. When he looked back, Connor saw nothing but desperation in his eyes.

  ‘Please, just don’t hurt them, okay?’ he said at last, his voice as pathetic as his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want but, please, just leave them alone. Please . . .’

  Connor stood back as the man began to cry, soft sobs that racked his thin shoulders.

  I’ll stay quiet. I was only joking.

  Don’t hurt them.

  ‘Who do you think sent us?’ Connor asked, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. ‘And why do you think we’re going to hurt Donna Blake and her son?’

  The man’s head whipped up, hope guttering in his eyes. ‘He didn’t send you?’ he whispered. ‘You’re not here for me or Donna? Then who . . .?’

  Connor sighed, frustrated. ‘Let’s start again,’ he said. ‘Who are you, and why were you trying to see Donna Blake?’

  The man’s eyes flicked between the three men, desperate calculations giving him a feral, feverish look. ‘My name is Mark Sneddon,’ he said at last. ‘I work for the Chronicle. I need to see Donna because I’m in a world of shit and I don’t know where else to turn.’

  CHAPTER 66

  Emma snapped awake, disoriented. Why was her bed in the wrong position? Why was the pillow too soft? Who had put that chair in the corner and where was . . .

  Realization hit her as the fog in her mind gradually cleared. She remembered now. After her call with Donna Blake, she had demanded access to Mark’s room at the Golden Lion. The concierge, a young, slope-shouldered kid who was all acne and wide eyes, had demurred at first, citing security for the hotel’s guests. Emma admired the sentiment, but she didn’t have time for his professionalism. A few withering glances, a description of Mark’s luggage, then veiled threats about talking to the management, followed by a flash of her ID to prove her name, and she was following him up a small, narrow staircase.

  The room was on the second floor, one up from a large ballroom that Emma guessed saw a lot of weddings. The concierge let her in, gave her a spare key, then retreated. It was a typical mid-range hotel room, compact, neat. Mark’s suitcase, a battered old thing he had bought before their honeymoon, was tucked into the corner of the wardrobe, a shirt for the next day hanging freshly pressed above it. Typical Mark. Fuck around all you want
at night, but always be ready for the next day.

  Other than the shirt, there was little sign of his presence. The bed was made, sheets and pillows undisturbed. She had sat on it, suddenly tired, then lain back, staring up at the ceiling, hands steepled over her stomach, thinking. If Donna Blake was telling the truth, where had he gone? What was he doing?

  And with whom?

  The thoughts followed her into a fitful doze. Now, fully awake, she stood up and went to the bathroom. On the wall above the toilet there was a mirror, which flared into life as she stepped into the room. A stranger stared back at her, a flushed, haggard version of herself that she recognized from the eyes and the small mole just above the left eyebrow.

  She used the toilet, then washed her hands, splashed cold water onto the face that had taunted her from the mirror.

  Where the fuck was he? How could he do this to her? Especially now.

  The thought snarled in the corners of her mind. Donna Blake had said Mark wasn’t with her, but had she lied? Was he fucking her right at this moment even as Emma stood there, like the mother she had sworn never to emulate, anchored to a dead marriage, the invisible chains of an outwardly comfortable life and the crushing knowledge that it was too late to start again?

  She felt tears bite at the back of her eyes and whirled into the room. No. That would not be her. They had never spoken about it, silenced by their own cowardice. Besides, when the moment of decision had come, when she had seen in his eyes that he wanted to tell her it was over, he had chosen her. Not the pathetic bitch he had met at the office.

  Or so she had thought. But now?

  She walked to the small dressing-table beside the wardrobe, looked down at the hotel-branded notepad that lay next to the phone. The top of the pad was ragged, showing a page had been torn from it, a pen discarded beside it. She ran her finger across the indentations she felt on the page. A phone number? An address?