The chief constable arrived twenty minutes later, killing any lingering goodwill the press might have had. Ford did his best but he could hear the irritation creep into his voice as he had to find different ways to say the same thing over and over again. Yes, another body had been found. No, we have yet to identify the victim. We have nothing to implicitly connect this murder to the body found at Cowane’s Hospital yesterday, but we are pursuing every avenue of inquiry. Yes, we will keep you regularly updated.
Beside him, Chief Constable Peter Guthrie sat impassively, a serene Buddha who had been squeezed into a pressed police uniform that, instead of giving him an air of authority, made him look like a wee boy playing dress-up. Guthrie was a new breed of police officer, the type that believe in marketing plans, stakeholder engagement, community feedback and ‘positive reinforcement of our core ideals’. He was a graduate who had been put on the promotion fast-track, skipping ranks and the experience a real police officer needed. With the advent of Police Scotland, he had thrived in the bureaucratic churn that trying to bring eight police forces together under one roof had created, and found himself elevated to the top job after the previous chief had racked up too many controversies, both internal and external, to stay in post. He had become, in the post-reorganization age, that most forbidden entity – a political liability.
At several points during the press conference, Ford saw Donna Blake straining forward, trying to get in a question. Every time she raised her hand or tried to butt into the conversation, he ignored her. The chief did the same – given that he was using this whole debacle to gain a few Brownie points with his bosses at Holyrood, it was the least he could do. When Guthrie was summing up, looking into the camera with a voice as precise as his uniform creases and a delivery as polished as his epilates, Ford caught Blake’s eye. Her gaze was cold. She looked as if she was biting back a mouthful of expletives.
When Guthrie had finished speaking, Danny stepped in to usher the press out as Ford made for the door to the anteroom. He opened it for the chief, was just about to follow him through, when his phone buzzed. He cursed himself as he pulled it out of his pocket. He had meant to switch the damned thing off before the press conference, but at least he’d remembered to put it on silent this time.
He glanced at the screen, an unfamiliar number displayed. Hit answer, raised it to his ear.
‘DCI Ford,’ he said, closing the door to the anteroom.
‘Nice work just now,’ a familiar voice said. ‘What was that? Freeze me out for being a bad girl at the uni?’
‘Ms Blake,’ Ford said, pushing down the surge of fury he felt towards Danny. ‘I’m curious as to how you got this number. I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I was merely—’
‘Forget it,’ Donna Blake hissed. ‘I know exactly what you were doing, I heard about your boss’s little call to Sky. But it doesn’t matter. You can make it up to me right now.’
‘And how can I do that?’ Ford said, feeling a grudging amusement. He had to give it to her, Donna Blake was persistent. ‘And, more importantly, why?’
Donna barked a laugh. ‘I need a bit of background on the victim,’ she said. ‘See, I know you’ve had no luck tracking her down at the hotel, and her notebook makes it seem likely she was attending a conference there. But mostly I’m interested in the book you found with her, and the dedication.’
Ford’s headache snarled back into life, anger pulsing through him. How the hell did she know this? The answer was obvious. Danny. He gritted his teeth and bit back what he wanted to say. When he spoke, his voice was atonal. ‘Any details fit for public consumption were made available at the conference, Ms Blake. Anything else you may have is hearsay and I will not comment further. Are we clear?’
‘Oh, that’s fine,’ Donna said. ‘But the dedication in the book is confusing me a little.’ There was a pause, the rustle of notes, and then she was back, quoting the words to him. Words he had puzzled over. ‘“Not the same edition, but the same horror story. Hope you like it. See you soon, L.”’
She paused just long enough to enjoy his discomfort as it screamed across the silent phone line between them. The dedication meant nothing as far as she knew. But it was a way to show she was informed about the case and someone to take seriously.
‘Any comment?’ she asked.
‘None at the moment,’ Ford replied, fighting to keep the relief out of his voice. ‘You should check with your sources, Ms Blake. They’re not as good as you think they are.’
He killed the call, looked back at the now-deserted conference room. Considered. What the hell did Blake have over Danny to get him to tell her that? At least Danny had been smart and not told her everything. That one decision might just have saved his job.
Maybe.
She had been right on the dedication, with one glaring omission. It told them more than she thought, gave them their first and only real clue in the case. It was why they had decided not to release it to the public. Yes, it might have helped speed the identification, but it was also a good way of screening out the cranks who would undoubtedly come crawling out of the woodwork.
He thought again of the words, written in black pen in small, neat capitals on the inside front cover of the book.
‘Not the same edition, but the same horror story. Hope you like it, Connie. See you soon – L.’
They didn’t know who she was, what she was doing at the hotel or why she had been singled out to die so horribly. But they knew one thing about the woman dumped in the shadow of the Wallace Monument.
They knew her first name was Connie.