Donna watched as Ford’s car swept through the university entrance, the officers standing guard parting the throng of students and staff milling around.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered, driving straight on through the mini roundabout, then pulling in. She flicked her hazard lights on, ignored the impatient blare of the horn of the car following her.
Thinking back to the press conference, she had known Ford was the key to getting a line on the story. Despite his professional façade, Donna could see from the tics and twitches that drew his face into a tight grimace – hear from the tremor he worked a little too hard to keep out of his voice – that something about the case had got to him. And with Danny confirming that the victim had been tortured, Donna had decided she wanted a conversation with DCI Malcolm Ford.
She knew that going through the press office would be a waste of time – there was no way they were going to let the senior investigating officer on a splashy murder case sit down with a freelance reporter from the local radio station. So she had decided to go back to basics. She would doorstep him. Wait outside the concrete monstrosity that sat like a sixties gargoyle on St Ninians Road. So, after leaving her parents with Andrew, she had driven across town, parked on Clifford Road, which faced the station, as close to the entrance as she dared, and got comfortable.
She had just lulled herself into a state of boredom, her mind a jumble of thoughts about Fiona Clarke, Andrew and the possibility of getting the job she wanted, when she heard the harsh bleat of a siren from the police station. She looked up, training her camera on the building and trying to focus. A moment later a marked Fiesta bulleted out of the station, its engine giving a high-pitched howl of disapproval as whoever was driving floored the accelerator and took the gear as high into the red as the car would allow. She only glimpsed the man in the passenger seat, long, thin face, greying hair and hawkish nose, but she knew it was Ford. She started her car and took off after them, her fear at driving too fast competing with the thrill of the chase.
She had missed this. Been away from it too long. No matter what her mother said, this was what she needed. Not condescending pity, not a steady job or a settled life. No. This.
The police car was three vehicles ahead by the time Donna caught it on Polmaise Road, picking up speed. She followed as closely as she dared, praying that another wasn’t setting off from the station and about to appear in her rear-view mirror. The car flashed past the golf course then hung a left, Donna keeping it in view and trying to figure out where it was heading. It was hopeless: on the road it was travelling along it could hit the centre of town in less than fifteen minutes, or be heading for Raploch or even Bridge of Allan. Forget trying to anticipate, she thought, just keep it in sight.
Ten minutes later she watched the marked car drive into the grounds of the uni, watched it speed up to take the hill past Airthrey Loch as it made for the heart of the campus. She parked, willing herself to release her grip on the steering wheel, thoughts racing.
Why was Ford here? What had happened? Did they have a suspect, a weapon?
Her mind was a riot of thoughts and theories. She needed to get in there, needed to know, but there was no way she’d get through that police cordon. If only . . .
Her head whipped up, phone in her hand before the thought was fully formed. She pushed aside the nagging feeling that she was crossing an invisible line even as she called the number.
She pressed the phone to her ear, willing it to be answered, willing it to—
‘Hello?’
‘Gav? Gav, it’s Donna Blake, how you doing today?’
‘Eh, it’s all going a bit nuts here just now, to be honest, Ms Blake, something going on with the polis.’ His voice, normally so deep she could feel it reverberate in her chest, was high and wavering, pulled taut by adrenalin.
Donna stared out of the window, swallowing down the excitement that crawled up her throat. All going a bit nuts here.
Perfect.
When she wasn’t freelancing, Donna tutored on the journalism-studies course run by the university. It was easy work and good money, and some of the students could be fun. Like Gavin Webster, a lithe, almost lanky twenty-year-old from Perth whose pale complexion went a shade darker every time Donna walked into the room. She had played up to his obvious attraction to her, even though she hated herself for doing it. She’d worked hard to regain her figure after having Andrew, but still the self-doubt lingered. And Gavin’s attention helped dispel it. ‘Eh, Ms Blake?’ Gav asked, confusion bleeding the tension from his voice.
‘Yeah, sorry, Gav, sorry. So you’re on the campus now?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice brightening. ‘The cops are clearing everyone out, but I was on the grounds with the camera, trying out some shots, so I’m still here. Looks like whatever’s going on, it’s up at the hotel.’
Donna knew the place. The Stirling Court had been built at the top of a hill looking down on the rest of the uni campus. With its views of the Wallace Monument and the Ochil Hills, it did well as an events venue and a conference centre. But what did that mean for the story? Why had Ford been called there?
‘Listen, Gav, you fancy doing me a wee favour?’
‘Yeeaaah?’ he replied, wary eagerness giving his voice a brittle edge. She knew he was blushing.
‘Fancy testing that camera a bit? See if you can get any shots of what’s going on and send them over to me. Nothing that’s going to get you in any trouble, but anything that could help with the story. I’ll owe you one.’ She winced as she said it, her earlier unease blossoming into something uglier. But she needed this. For her. And Andrew.
‘Well, I . . .’ Gav said.
‘Please, Gav, it would really help.’ She let the statement hang, his indecision screaming in the sudden silence on the line. Then she heard him inhale.
‘Aye. I’ll see what I can get and ping them over to your email. Okay, Ms Blake?’
‘Yes, please, and it’s Donna.’
‘Donna, aye,’ he said, his voice a whisper. ‘Leave it with me.’
The phone went dead as Gav ended the call. Donna looked at it for a moment, studied the shadow of her reflection in the little screen as revulsion rose. She should call the poor kid back, tell him it was a mistake, not to bother. She spent a lot of her classes talking about the morality of journalism, that it wasn’t all phone hacking and breathless accounts of which D-list nobody was shagging whom, and yet now here she was, feeding a poor kid the same bullshit Mark had used on her. Her finger hovered over the phone. But she held back. She’d call him in a minute. Just one more minute . . .
Twenty minutes crawled by, the phone unused. Then it buzzed. Donna’s heart leapt as she unlocked it, saw the emails sitting there. She scrolled through them, her mouth dropping open.
Gavin. Sweet, naïve Gavin Webster. She could have kissed him.
She called his number, wasn’t surprised when he answered on the second ring.
‘That’s all I could get Ms B– Donna,’ he said. ‘Cops are all over the place. They do?’
‘They’re perfect, Gav, absolutely perfect. You’re a genius. Now, listen, I need to ask you a couple of questions on the record, but don’t worry, I’m only going to quote you as an eyewitness. Okay?’
‘So you’re not going to put me on the radio?’
Donna bit back a surge of impatience, forced her voice to be calm. ‘No, Gavin, not just now. I don’t want you to be linked to the pictures or the story, and someone would recognize your voice. I’m going to write it up as a news story, put it on the website and see if we can punt it nationally.’
‘Aye.’
‘Great,’ Donna said. ‘So, from the beginning, just tell me everything you saw.’