Crime thriller serialisation: No Man's Land, by Neil Broadfoot - Part 3
CONNOR was halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew who it would be.
‘Lachlan, how are you?’
‘Connor,’ Lachlan Jameson boomed, voice as clipped and precise as the moustache he insisted on wearing.
‘What news this fine day?’ Connor rolled his eyes. Did he really think ordinary people still talked like that?
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Just wrapped up with Stephen Benson at the High Court.
‘He’s on his way home now. Iain will stand perimeter with Jodie, keep the press at bay.’
‘And what about young Lindsay’s performance?’ Lachlan asked, a hint of impatience creeping down the phone line.
Connor winced. Shit. The old man must have been watching the case on the TV.
‘Let’s just say he needs a little work,’ he replied. ‘Couple more months of training and Robbie should work out nicely.’
‘Is that an offer?’
Connor mouthed a silent curse. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘no way. You asked me to run the close protection and security around Stephen and his family while he gave evidence. Job done.
‘Iain and the team can handle the rest. Besides, I’ve got a long weekend coming up, remember?’
Jameson grumbled his displeasure down the phone. As a former soldier, there was something about ‘time off’ that he just couldn’t understand. Maybe, Connor thought, if he knew what I’ve got to do, he’d go a little easier.
‘Fine, Connor, fine. Just remember, though, if Robbie’s not an asset, he’s a liability. If he’s not cutting it, we cut him. This is a business, after all.’
Connor bit down on the sigh he felt in his chest. Typical Jameson: officer class, saw the grunts as cannon fodder, disposable. Not if he could help it.
‘You want me to come into the office and write up my report now?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. Just head home, type it up and email it to me by close of play.
‘Besides, you’ll want to get back to where the action is anyway.’
‘Oh?’ Connor said.
‘Seems there’s been a murder in Stirling, not far from where you stay. Not a bad break for us, keeps the trial further down the news schedule.
‘There isn’t a lot of detail at this stage, but sounds fairly grim. Maybe you should come into work after all - might be quieter than home tonight.’
Despite himself, Connor laughed. ‘Not bloody likely,’ he said.
‘And, besides, murder investigations aren’t my thing any more. Let some other poor sod deal with it.’
‘Better them than us,’ Jameson agreed. ‘Enjoy your time off, Connor.’
Before Connor could reply, the line went dead. Jameson always wanted the last word. He flipped open the news app on his phone and found the story. It didn’t add much to what Jameson had told him already. Body found up near the castle, police saying the death was being treated as suspicious, with ‘definite lines of enquiry being followed’.
Translation: it’s a murder, and we don’t have a single clue yet. The byline of the reporter who had written the story contained her Twitter handle: @donnablake1news. Instinctively, Connor flicked over to his Twitter app, scrolled through her timeline and clicked follow. After all, it never hurt to stay informed.
CHAPTER TWO
STIRLING - From beyond the police cordon, DCI Malcolm Ford heard the soft purr of tyres on cobbles as a car made its way up St John Street towards Stirling Castle. He locked onto the sound, like a shield against the soft, incessant squealing behind him. It was like a grotesque ear worm, a song he kept hearing in his mind. Insidious, maddening. Irresistible. Look at me, it whispered. Just turn and look.
Instead Ford gazed up into the clear August sky, closing his eyes against the sudden memory of what lay behind him, trying to draw heat from the day to banish the bone-deep chill that forced him to clench his teeth to stop them chattering.
Look at me, the squeal sang behind him, louder this time as the wind picked up. Go on. Just one quick look.
Ford opened his eyes and, making a half-turn, forced himself to focus instead on the scene in front of him. He was on a small lane that ran between the Holy Rude Church and the old bowling green that lay behind the imposing frontage of Cowane’s Hospital, which dated from the seventeenth century and backed onto the town walls.
At this time of year, the place should have been bustling with tourists, eagerly snapping pictures as they took in the whitewashed stone and grey slate of the hospital and wandered around the gardens that surrounded the bowling green. Today the area was sealed off - crime scene tape draped across the gates that led onto the lane, two officers posted there to keep curious passersby away and a growing number of reporters and camera crews in check.
Tourists had been replaced by SOCOs, the carefree wandering giving way to an agonisingly slow fingertip search of the area. Crime-scene photographers, using massive lenses and harsh flashes, were capturing every grim detail.
In the centre of the green, a large white tent shimmered in the breeze, hastily erected to protect as much of the immediate scene as possible. A similar tent was being erected behind Ford to preserve the primary crime scene and contain the sheer horror of what was there. But he knew better. Containment was impossible now...
To be continued...
Thank you for reading this story on our website. While I have your attention, I also have an important request to make of you.
In order for us to continue to provide high quality and trusted local news on this free-to-read site, I am asking you to also please purchase a copy of our newspaper.
Our journalists are highly trained and our content is independently regulated by IPSO to some of the most rigorous standards in the world. But being your eyes and ears comes at a price. So we need your support more than ever to buy our newspapers during this crisis.
With the coronavirus lockdown having a major impact on many of our local valued advertisers - and consequently the advertising that we receive - we are more reliant than ever on you helping us to provide you with news and information by buying a copy of our newspaper.
Thank you
Frank O'Donnell
Editorial Director