They held the press conference at Randolphfield, in a grim basement room that had the reporters complaining about poor lighting, lack of power points and crap sound. Sitting in an anteroom, Ford heard the griping, cut through with Danny’s increasingly strident responses. Served the little shit right. Ford could have had another press officer run the show, but he wanted to make Danny suffer. From the sound of it, he was.
Ford returned to the notes in front of him, felt the prickle of annoyance again, adding to the headache that was pressing at the back of his eyes. It was a waste of time. He was being wheeled out in front of the press as cannon fodder, nothing more.
He had already received the call telling him that Special Investigations were taking over the case, and he was to offer his ‘full and total co-operation’. That they were assuming command immediately after the press conference – leaving him to face the journalists with only a chief constable who thought every run-in with the media was an exercise in self-promotion – was a total coincidence.
Yeah, right.
He was the sacrificial lamb, the DCI who would stand up and tell the gathering how little progress they had made, which would give the chief the perfect opening to tell reporters he was taking a closer operational role and had called in Special Investigations to drive the case forward. It made Ford seem inept, the chief in control.
When, he wondered, had policing stopped being about catching criminals and become an exercise in political manoeuvring?
He thought again of retiring, jacking it in and walking away. Mary would approve. She had made no secret of her concerns about the toll the job was taking on him, the dark moods, the drinking, the sullen periods of silence when he would bottle up everything he had seen, unwilling and unable to burden her with it. He was close to his thirty years anyway, and he was still young enough to do something else.
But then he thought of Billy Griffin’s head swaying in the breeze. The hellish squeal calling to him, beckoning him to look . . .
He had to face whoever had done that, look into their eyes, see what resided there, what made such violence and fury possible. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he did.
The door to the room swung open, Danny stepping inside. ‘Chief is ten minutes away,’ he said, brandishing his mobile. ‘You all set, sir?’
‘I’m fine,’ Ford replied. ‘Tell me, has that reporter arrived? You know, the one who was on Sky, got those pictures from the university?’
Danny’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes narrowing. Ford smiled at his discomfort. So he was right: the little shite was talking to her. It was obvious, really – a quick look at Danny’s CV, a Google search of Donna Blake’s name showed they’d both worked in Glasgow, on the same paper, at the same time. The calls to a couple of contacts in what had been Pitt Street CID had hardly been necessary, but Ford liked to be thorough.
If only everything was so obvious.
Danny paled, fidgeted with his phone. ‘Ah, I’ve not seen her, but I’m sure she’ll be here. Why, sir? Is there something particular you want to discuss with her? Of course I can set up a sit-down with her but . . .’
Ford raised a hand, silencing him. ‘Nothing like that, Danny,’ he said. ‘After the crap she pulled at the campus, I just want to know she’s there so I can avoid calling her for questions.’
Danny’s mouth opened, as though he was about to say something. Clearly he thought better of it. ‘I’ll make sure you know where she is, sir,’ he said, his tone resigned.
‘Good.’ Ford nodded. ‘Now make sure there’s water on the conference table. The chief is always thirsty at these things and, who knows, I might need a jug to empty over one of the hacks.’