Crime thriller serialisation: No Man's Land, by Neil Broadfoot

STEPHEN waited a beat, fighting to keep his voice even. ‘Ah, come on, man. Just let me go, okay? My dad’ll blame Robbie, not you. He’s the one I got away from. Just let me go. Tell Dad you couldnae catch me. Please?’

Connor shook his head slowly, eyebrows rising in something like apology as he eased his grip, allowing Stephen to move away from the wall.

‘Sorry, I can’t. You know that. Besides, where would you go? And what would you do next? No, better to go home. Be with your family. You’ve got a dad who only wants to look after you. Let him.’

Stephen glanced over Connor’s shoulder towards the station. He felt a brief tug of regret, and sighed. Where would he go? It wasn’t like he could just fade into the background - he’d been plastered across the headlines for a week now: Star’s Son Key Witness in Murder Trial. With the trial ongoing, the press had refrained from picking apart his life, digging into the corners he didn’t want them looking into.

But now that he’d done his part, given evidence that almost guaranteed a conviction, they would be on him. Scrutinizing his life. Wanting him to comment. His dad’s agent had already warned him that the media interest would be intense. Wherever he went, this would follow him. Connor was right: better to face it here. He took a steadying breath, nodded.

Connor studied him for a second longer, then took a step back, letting Stephen move onto the path. But he didn’t let him go: one hand was still clamped around his arm. Just in case. Stephen let himself be led the short distance to the end of the alleyway, felt no surprise when he saw a black BMW parked at the side of the road, idling.

The driver’s window buzzed down, Iain Robbins nodding to Connor as they approached, eyes darting over Stephen. Connor guided Stephen to the back of the car and opened the door for him to get in.

‘Look, Connor, I . . .’

Connor held up a hand. ‘No problem,’ he said.

‘I know what it’s like. You did a brave thing today, Stephen.

‘Not everyone would have the balls to stand up and tell the truth the way you did. But you did it. Now you have to deal with the fallout.’

A flash of panic made Stephen’s legs twitch, the thought of running darting through his mind. But then he stopped. Calmed himself. It was done. He couldn’t change that now. Best to pick up the pieces. He ducked into the car, Connor swinging the door shut behind him.

‘Come on, then, Iain,’ he said. ‘Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.’

Connor watched the car pull away, heading down Market Street. Waited until it got to the roundabout and turned left, heading for Stockbridge and Stephen’s home. He wondered what John Benson would say to his son when he got there, pushed the thought aside as he clicked open his earpiece channel. ‘Team leader to Tango Alpha, asset secured. Lid full. Going off comms.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, just removed the earpiece and slipped it into his pocket. Then he pulled out his mobile and called Robbie Lindsay’s number.

‘Connor, man. Sorry, he got away from me. Fast wee guy, he...’

‘I don’t want to hear excuses, Robbie.’ Connor glanced up the News Steps Stephen had just sprinted down. Kid was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck.

‘You were primary on Stephen. There was no way you should have let him get enough distance between you and him to make a break for it, especially so close to an unsecured exit.’

Robbie mumbled an apology, took a breath. ‘You going to tell Jameson?’

‘Do I have a choice? You let an asset slip out of the pocket in an exposed area.

‘We were only lucky that he followed the path I’d already shown him and had limited options for escape.

‘Imagine what would have happened if he’d managed to get past me and was hit by a car or something.’

Silence fell on the line. Robbie didn’t need to imagine.

John Benson was one of the biggest names in Edinburgh, a former fan favourite at Hibs who’d moved into TV punditry and presenting when his footballing career had petered out. Stephen had enjoyed living in the shadow of his father’s success and played the role of spoilt celebrity brat, the usual blend of parties, paparazzi and sex keeping the media interested.

But it had all gone wrong for Stephen one night three months ago when, sharing a nose-full of party favours in the toilets of one of Edinburgh’s more exclusive clubs, a hanger-on called Roddy Davis had got into a row with another clubber and, in a rage, produced a knife and slit the man’s throat.

Stephen had made a full statement to the police, and was called to be the star witness in the trial, which had generated a full-blown media circus.

John Benson had called in Sentinel Securities, the same close-security firm that had looked after him when the partying got a little too hard and the crowds a little too rowdy.

‘Look, I’ll think about it,’ Connor said, focusing again on Robbie. ‘But catch yourself on, okay? This isn’t a game.’

Connor killed the call, headed for the News Steps. He had seen Stephen collide with someone up there and wanted to check that whoever it had been wasn’t hurt. He was halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzed. He knew who it would be...

To be continued...

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Crime thriller serialisation: No Man's Land, by Neil Broadfoot - Part 2