No Man's Land

by Neil Broadfoot

  Higgins seemed to regain some measure of control. He slowed his breathing, smoothed his tie. But it was a façade: the quick, rat-like glances at everyone around him told Connor as much.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I worked for Ken for years and I—’

  ‘You used him,’ Connor said. ‘Must have been handy having the ear of someone that high up in the party, someone you could mould into a success, use to gain their trust. And all the while you were still having your little weekends with Helen Russell and the boys at 4AG. My friend Donna told me all about you back in 2014, how desperate you were to have the picture of Billy Griffin pulled from the papers. Didn’t make much sense at the time, but I get it now. You weren’t worried about how it would affect the cause, you were worried it would make Billy too much of a star, get him to talk about his pals. But he kept quiet, didn’t he? Until Matt Evans, of course.’

  A dark flash in Higgins’s eyes at the mention of Evans’s name. It was all the confirmation Connor needed.

  ‘That bastard,’ Higgins whispered.

  Connor nodded. ‘Yeah, that bastard. See, I read it wrong. It was you he emailed, not Ferguson, wasn’t it? Lets4kenny – that email account was set up on Kenny’s behalf, but it wasn’t used by him, was it? I bet if I looked on your computer I’d find the log-ins there. Evans knew what he had, and he was blackmailing you with it. And, as it was you who spoke to Lachlan Jameson back in 2014, you who “made the arrangements” to hire him for Ferguson, you had just the solution to your problem, didn’t you?’

  Defiance straightened Higgins’s spine, forced him to lock eyes with Connor who, despite the pain, took a half-step forward into the gaze.

  ‘You have nothing,’ Higgins said, more to himself than to Connor, a sneer twisting his features. ‘A blurry picture, a claim I had access to my boss’s private email and records showing I arranged security for Ferguson a couple of years ago. Nothing.’

  Connor shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it’s enough to start with, enough to get the questions going, isn’t it? And how’s it going to look when the man behind the minister is exposed as a regular at ultra-Unionist camps?’

  Higgins’s resolve seemed to crumple, fast calculations running across his eyes. He ran his tongue over his lips, swallowed once, throat clicking. ‘What do you want?’ he breathed, his voice taking on a pleading that hurt Connor almost as much as his leg. ‘I wasn’t joking before – I can get you . . .’

  Connor felt the anger rise in him then, cold and black. When he spoke, he heard his father’s voice. ‘What I want is my friend to recover from the broken jaw you caused. What I want is Donna Blake not to be haunted by the image of what you had done to Matt Evans. What I want is for my leg to stop aching every time I fucking move. But what I’ll take is watching the police and the press rip you apart. Don’t worry, though. You won’t have to wait too long. I’ve already sent them all the records of your contact with Jameson, the emails to Kenny’s account and, of course, this picture.’

  He lifted the iPad, waved it in Higgins’s face. ‘They should be here very, very soon.’

  Higgins whipped his head around, like an animal suddenly realizing it was in a cage. Connor turned and walked away, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to walk smoothly, not let Higgins see how badly he was hurt. As he walked, he heard the first wail of a siren in the distance and wondered if it was headed this way. Looked back over his shoulder to see Higgins rushing for the Parliament.

  Not that there was a safe hiding place for him there – or anywhere else for that matter. If the police didn’t get him, Connor would. For Billy Griffin, Matt Evans, Helen Russell – and Simon.

  He got back to the car park where he had left the Audi, paused in front of it, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. Took deep breaths as he swallowed the pain shooting through his leg. The siren sounded closer now, more urgent. He hoped that, wherever Higgins was, he was hearing it too.

  Connor circled the car slowly, bending at the wheel arches, intent on his task. Then, satisfied, he got in and fired the engine.

  Even in peace time, you always checked under the car before you drove.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing can be a solitary business, so I owe a massive thank-you to everyone who regularly turns up at the scene of the crime with support, advice and bad jokes. You all know who you are, and you are the best.

  To my publisher, Krystyna Green, who had the faith to sign me, thank you. The gin and dog pics are on me! I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Craig Russell, whose support and advice have been invaluable, just as his work has helped me grow as a writer.

  Thanks are also due to everyone in the wider crime-writing community: you help make sure this work never feels like a job. There are too many to mention, but special thanks to Vic Watson and Jacky Collins who do such great work with noir at the bar in Newcastle and Edinburgh and, of course, Lucy Cameron, who gave me the highlight of my career by getting me to play half a pantomime horse in Dumfries.

  My life wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t mention my fellow blokes in search of a plot, Gordon Brown and Mark Leggatt. Thanks for making sure I burst a gut laughing every time we step on stage. And, Mark, make sure that tea cosy is washed before the next time we need it. Thanks also to Alasdair Sim for the early red-folder read-through, and Elaine Cropley for letting me drone on about books over drinks.

  The biggest thanks go to Fiona, who understands when I get lost (i.e. grumpy) in the work, and Alex and Madeleine, who are always there for a hug when I need it.

  And, last, to my agent, Bob McDevitt, who got me into this, and my other fellow bloke Douglas Skelton (bet you thought I’d forgotten you) who got me through it, thank you. I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.