The coffee was cold and bitter, but it was doing its job and holding the exhaustion that was settling into his muscles at bay. Ford drained the mug, then reached up and rubbed his eyes, as though he could massage some energy into himself.
No such luck.
He stood, his left knee making its all-too-familiar protest, then walked across the room to the incident board and the pictures that were pinned there.
The SOCOs’ picture of the decapitated head had been joined by another, this time of the victim’s mugshot when he was last arrested, four years ago. They were lucky, Ford thought, that Billy Griffin had been stupid enough to get lifted. Looking at the pictures side by side, the knot of sallow, bloodied flesh, its features frozen in a rictus of agony, bore little resemblance to the man in the mugshot. In life, Billy Griffin had been almost handsome, with high cheekbones, fashionably tousled dark hair and thick, full lips that made it look as though he were pouting for the camera. But, as Ford now knew, Billy Griffin’s character did not match his appearance.
At least, not in life.
His record read like a CV for a petty thug. Born and bred in Bridgeton, east Glasgow, Billy had started his career early, with convictions for robbery, possession of class-A substances and assault. He was a known troublemaker on the terraces, banned from the grounds of both Celtic and Rangers, the city’s two big teams.
He’d bounced along like that for years, supporting himself with semi-regular work as a painter and decorator for one of the big housing firms that seemed intent on buying up every open plot of land in Scotland and throwing up increasingly small properties. So far, so average. Just another young man with too short a fuse and too quick a fist.
But then came September 2014, and Billy had graduated to the big league.
It was the Friday after the independence referendum. With feelings still running high, Yes voters had descended on Glasgow’s George Square, which had become something of a focal point for pro-independence rallies in the build-up to the vote on 18 September. That night, they’d come to commiserate with each other and vent their wounded defiance. But things had turned ugly when a group of pro-Union supporters charged at the crowd, chanting Nazi slogans, taunting with ‘Rule Britannia’ and firing off a flare that acted as a starting gun for a night of violence. In the end, eleven people were arrested for various offences, ranging from assault and breach of the peace to vandalism. Billy Griffin was one of them.
When the trouble had started, police officers at the scene had quickly formed a human barrier to keep the two factions separate and the chance of violence to a minimum. The problem was, Billy was already in the square when the pro-Union protesters arrived. When the situation descended into chaos, he kept his head down, waiting for his moment.
It came when Billy managed to grab a pro-independence banner and a flag bearing the Yes logo. Clambering onto a statue of Queen Victoria on horseback, which stood at the corner of the square, facing the pro-Union crowd, he had held both flag and banner aloft and set them alight, to roaring approval of the No crowd. Thinking back, Ford remembered the image of Billy that had been splashed across the papers and TV. In that moment, Billy Griffin had graduated from part-time thug to heroic totem of those who thought political debate started with questioning your opponents’ parentage and ended with a hard boot to their ribs.
Luckily for Billy, a police officer got to him before the pro-independence supporters, who would have ripped him limb from limb. He went quietly, almost eagerly, his work done, his legacy secure.
Billy was sent to Barlinnie Prison and given a four-figure fine, both of which triggered intense debate in the media and gave them another chance to use the footage of Billy setting the flag alight. But then, as always happens, the story moved on, the commentators and the media looking for other topics and fresher meat. According to the reports, Billy had served his time quietly, been released and then gone back to his life.
Ford looked at the board, careful to keep his eyes on the picture of Billy when he was still alive. Something was missing. While Billy’s pro-Union tendencies might explain the tattoo on his chest, why had he been murdered so savagely? And if it was some kind of revenge for what he had done at George Square, why dump his body in Stirling, more than twenty-five miles away? Why not leave it in Glasgow?
Ford looked down at Billy’s file, suddenly aware of how thin it was. He needed more. Background. Detail. Who Billy was, what—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shrill ring of his phone. He gave the inquiry board one last look, as though it might reveal its secrets to him, then headed for his desk, a growing unease roiling queasily in his throat. This must be the call he was dreading from the chief, telling him the case was being reassigned to Special Investigations or something else.
‘Ford,’ he said.
‘Sir? Sir, it’s DS Troughton,’ the young detective blurted down the phone, his voice quickened by excitement, made tremulous by fear.
Ford sighed, suddenly irritated. ‘Yes, Troughton, what is it? I’m in the middle of—’
Troughton cut him off, his words turning Ford’s blood to ice, his lungs to stone. The world seemed to crowd in on him, taunt him. Torture him.
‘Sir,’ Troughton said. ‘First, your wife is okay. She’s been evacuated with everyone else and she’s absolutely fine, okay?’
‘Troughton, what the fuck do you mean? What’s going on? What’s—’
‘Sir, there’s been another one,’ Troughton said. ‘And this time it’s at the uni.’