Ford was back at his desk at seven the next morning, too many thoughts and too little sleep conspiring to give him a snarling headache. Randolphfield, a brutalist concrete office block with dull grey walls and too-small windows, was quiet at that time of the morning, the incident room yet to fill with officers and the chaotic bustle that a murder inquiry always generated.
Tennant had written up his report and emailed it through late last night and, as promised, the tattoo received nothing but a cursory mention as a potentially identifying mark. Ford stared at the image on the screen, the harsh flare of the pathologist’s camera bleaching the greying skin a waxy white colour, giving the bruising around the tattoo a sickening glare that did nothing to calm his stomach.
The moment he reported his suspicions, it would create a chain reaction. With the current uncertainty in Northern Ireland and sporadic terrorist activity across the UK, law-enforcement agencies were on high alert. And news that a man’s murder had all the hallmarks of a paramilitary-style punishment beating, and that the victim had had a Loyalist tattoo on his chest, would do nothing to dampen those fears.
The thought of the case being taken out of his hands, passed to the Specialist Crime Division, or possibly even MI5, gnawed at him. He saw that head every time he closed his eyes, heard the singsong squeal in his ears the moment he let down his guard. Who could inflict that level of brutality on another human being? Ford was no stranger to violence, but this was something new. Almost like a malignant leap forward in the evolution of evil. Not surprising, perhaps, in the age of tweeting madmen and bigotry packaged as patriotism, but still Ford had to know. Had to look whoever had done this in the eye.
The blood and DNA samples had been sent for cross-matching to see if they corresponded to someone they had on the database, and the description they had managed to cobble together by looking beyond the victim’s horrific injuries was being cross-checked with missing persons, but still the waiting maddened him.
He tried to distract himself by sinking into the mire of paperwork and bureaucracy that was the hallmark of any major investigation. He filed overtime requests – which would no doubt be denied – made sure the press office had everything they needed, wrote a brief for the chief constable, updated the case log, assigned duties for the day . . . It just never seemed to end. He had been told, along with every other police officer in Scotland, that the merger of the eight forces into one would make everyone’s jobs easier as the single force created ‘synergies and efficiencies’.
All it created for Ford was a major fucking headache.
He leant back, away from the screen, blinked, then stood stiffly and walked across the room. The blow-up had been pinned to one of the whiteboards that lined the far wall, a silent scream with its own gravitational pull that seemed to suck all the attention in the room towards it. He wondered again about the wisdom of pinning the picture up where everyone could see it: the head on the spike, ruined eyes glaring out at them, challenging them to find whoever had done it. Ford knew a couple of the officers thought it was going too far. Even for those accustomed to violence and death, it was unsettling. But he wanted, needed, it to be there. A reminder of what they were facing, of the madness that was, even now, out there somewhere.
The thought that had haunted him last night rose in his mind. Was this an isolated killing or the start of something more? The dumping and staging of the body at a tourist hotspot in the heart of town without being seen suggested meticulous planning and execution, which was hard to reconcile with the sheer sadism of the killing.
But would that be it? Would they be satisfied with one kill, or would they want – need – more?
He was staring at the picture, lost in the dark labyrinth of his thoughts, when his computer gave a soft chime. He turned and walked back to it, saw he had a new email. His breath caught in his throat as he read the subject line, heart hammering with excitement and trepidation as he opened it. He read the message quickly, then double-clicked on the attachment.
He read greedily. Felt the ramifications squeeze his gut into a bilious ball of tension. He looked away from the screen, back to the picture of the head that glared at him from the other side of the room.
A head he now had a name for.