Jennifer MacKenzie lived in a flat in the Woodlands, a development that had been carved out of a patch of ground just off Livilands Lane, a popular suburban area of the city known for its wide streets, large stone-fronted homes and access to good schools. It was a place for families – which might have been why it made Connor uneasy.
She lived on the top floor of a three-storey block tucked away at the rear of the development. The door was a standard intercom and deadlock routine: a visitor would buzz the appropriate flat, speak into the mic and the owner could buzz them in. Connor made a mental note as he pushed Jen’s buzzer. She had asked him to give his professional opinion on security at her flat to placate her father. But how much should he tell her? The entry system was fine for day-to-day use, but anyone who really wanted to get inside could circumvent it easily enough. Copy the service key, tailgate a delivery driver inside, wait for the postman, override the system – but there was a fine line between security awareness and paranoia. He thought again of the gun he had held earlier, wondered if he knew where that line was.
The door buzzed and popped open, and he stepped inside to a narrow, well-lit hallway. He looked around, found no lift, which was good. Confined spaces for a target were always a problem, and lifts, especially in residential blocks like this, magnified it. It was all too easy to get into a lift, hit the emergency stop and stick a knife between your victim’s ribs.
Connor shook his head, admonishing himself. There it was again. His gran called it his Doomsday gift – the ability to see the worst in any situation. And he couldn’t argue. He had a tendency to fatalism, an ability to seek out the worst in every situation and dwell on it. It was like a dark cloud that shaded his thinking, filled every shadow with menace – it sparked his paranoia and the ludicrous thought that Jonny Hughes was somehow involved in the murders across the city. It was a characteristic he didn’t like about himself but, he was forced to admit, it was useful in his line of work, where planning for the worst could keep his clients safe, secure, and breathing.
He took the steps to Jen’s flat two at a time, gripped by a sudden urge to move, and found her door at the end of a short corridor it shared with one other. He expected the door to open as he approached, her waiting to let him in after buzzing the entry door, but it remained closed. Connor approved. It was an all-too-common mistake. Buzz the main door open, then swing open your own front door without thinking. It took away another possible line of defence, left you open and vulnerable.
He knocked on the door, the sound echoing along the corridor. A heavy lock disengaged, then it swung open.
Connor took a half-step backwards, cursing himself even as he stretched his face into a smile. He was so focused on thinking about Jen’s potential vulnerability, he’d forgotten to think about his own.
Stupid. And careless.
A large, heavy-set man was wedged into the doorway, like an adult standing at the entrance to a Wendy house. What he lacked in height – Connor guessed he wasn’t much more than five foot four – he more than made up for in width. A dark shirt was stretched tight across a barrel chest and strained at the waistband, the shirt-sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms stained with dark tattoos. Wisps of white-blond hair clung defiantly to his head, which gleamed in the light from the hall. He looked Connor up and down, his jaw working soundlessly, a darker, crueller version of his daughter’s eyes boring into him.
‘Mr MacKenzie,’ Connor said, offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Connor Fraser.’
If Jen’s father was surprised that Connor knew who he was, he showed no sign of it. He grunted, took a slow step forward, easing the door shut behind him. ‘Ah ken who you are, son,’ he said, his accent putting him somewhere between Edinburgh and Broxburn to Connor’s ear. ‘Paulie told me all about you.’
Connor felt tension crawl into his shoulders, the first shot of adrenalin chilling the back of his neck. Shit. ‘Just an unfortunate misunderstanding,’ he said, keeping his voice as level as his gaze.
‘Unfortunate, my arse. You broke three of his fuckin’ fingers.’
‘Purely in self-defence. I could have done a lot worse.’
Something sparked in MacKenzie’s eyes, a flare scudding across a dark sky, and his jaw started to work faster. In the sudden charged silence of the hallway, Connor could have sworn he heard teeth grinding.
After a moment, MacKenzie seemed to deflate, as though whatever had been capering behind his eyes had fled. ‘Aye, well, just don’t try to be a smart cunt again, okay?’
Connor swallowed down a flash of anger at being told what to do. ‘Never my intention, sir, I was just—’
He was cut short by the door swinging open, Jen standing there, giving her father a hard stare. ‘Dad,’ she said, her voice lyrical with the singsong admonishment only a daughter can give a father, ‘I told you to leave it. If Connor said it was self-defence, it was. You know what Paulie’s like. He probably asked for it.’
‘Aye, he probably did at that,’ MacKenzie said, his own voice heavy with the knowledge that he was never going to win this argument. He stretched out a hand to Connor, who returned the hard shake with a smile as empty as MacKenzie’s.
‘Duncan MacKenzie, pleased to meet you, son,’ he said, although he and Connor knew the opposite was true. ‘Was just popping in on Jen, see how she was.’
‘What he’s trying to say is he’s just leaving,’ Jen said, her eyes taking on some of her father’s harsh focus. ‘Weren’t you, Dad?’
MacKenzie’s eyes flitted between Connor and his daughter, torn. Then he took a breath and straightened himself to his full height, such as it was. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I guess I am.’ He turned back to Jen, kissed her cheek and gave her a clumsy squeeze of a hug. Connor watched as his posture shifted and relaxed, trying to contort his rough exterior into some approximation of tenderness for his little girl.
‘See you later, Dad,’ Jen whispered into his neck.
MacKenzie took a step back. ‘Will do, sweetheart.’ He was halfway along the hall when he stopped and turned, as though remembering something he had forgotten. ‘I took your advice, by the way,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’ Connor asked.
‘You told Paulie I should look you up. So I did. Sentinel Securities, protection for VIPs, politicians and the like?’
Connor nodded, the joints in his neck feeling as though they were filled with sand. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Good,’ MacKenzie said. ‘Because Jen is a VIP. Understood, Fraser?’
Connor let the silence fall between them, his eyes locking with MacKenzie’s. There was nothing he liked in that gaze, and everything he recognized. Fury. The overwhelming desire to protect. A pleading not to hurt the person he loved. He’d seen that look before: it had stared back at him from the mirror in Belfast as he tried to wash blood off his shaking hands. ‘Understood,’ he said, suddenly aware of Jen standing beside him.
‘Enough, Dad,’ she said. ‘Connor’s going to give the flat the once-over. And now you know he’s a professional. I’ll call you later, okay?’
‘Okay,’ MacKenzie said, his eyes not leaving Connor’s.
The flat was bigger than Connor expected, one wall dominated by floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that led to a small balcony and views across Stirling to the Ochil Hills. The place was clean and tidy, almost Spartan in its appearance, giving the impression that Jen had just moved in. That might explain the reason for his visit.
‘Sorry about Dad,’ she said, as she ushered him to a large leather couch that sat against the wall opposite the sliding doors. ‘He’s always been over-protective. And after what you did to Paulie . . .’ She let the sentence trail off, giving him a look that was half scolding and half encouraging.
‘I’m sorry about that, Jen. He turned up at my place, must have followed me home last night. Guess I rubbed him up the wrong way. But he threw the first punch.’
She dipped her chin to her chest, as though making a decision. ‘Yeah, Paulie always was a bit of a hothead,’ she said. ‘Not surprising that he got into trouble. And, to be honest, it might have done me a favour.’
‘Oh?’ Connor asked. In the pub the night before, she had admitted having her dad’s employee watching her was a pain but, ultimately, she’d learnt to live with it. Was this what she’d wanted? To have Paulie taken out of action?
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Dad didn’t like what you did, but coming from his background, he respects it. Which means he respects you – and your word. So if you have a look around the flat and say it’s okay, he’s likely to believe you and back off a bit.’
She had asked him the night before if he would take a look at the place. At first, Connor had thought it was a pick-up line, a clumsy way to get him into her flat. But he had quickly realized she’d meant it. Which left only one question. No point in being coy about it. ‘And why does your dad want someone to check out your flat?’ he asked.
She fidgeted in the seat, the leather squeaking softly as she moved. She dropped her eyes, embarrassment diverting her gaze. ‘Well,’ she said, hesitant, ‘it’s just that he does a bit of business across the Central Belt, and sometimes he has to work with people who, ah, play a little rough. I only moved into this place three months ago, and Dad’s a bit nervous.’
‘Does he need to be?’ Connor asked. He had checked up on the MacKenzie name when he’d got in last night. Didn’t take long to link it to Duncan MacKenzie of MacKenzie Haulage, a freight company that operated across the Central Belt. A couple of calls to a contact at the Police Scotland call centre at Bilston Glen painted the rest of the picture. With his haulage firm criss-crossing the country, and reaching into Europe, there were rumours that not all of Duncan MacKenzie’s cargo was strictly legal. Nothing had ever been proven, despite the police checking, but the off-the-record consensus was that, if it needed moving, MacKenzie would shift it. For a fee. Drugs, porn, booze, fuel, firearms, food, medical supplies, he didn’t care. The only thing he wouldn’t move, the reports said, was people. But even with that caveat, he would be dealing with those who wouldn’t think twice about using his daughter to settle a grievance. Which raised another question Connor had yet to answer for himself.
What was he doing here?
Jen gave a sudden smile. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I mean, yeah, okay, once, but I doubt anything will now. Dad’s always been overprotective, so I thought you looking at the place might set his mind at ease.’
Connor studied her. He should leave. Stay the hell away from her and Duncan MacKenzie. He’d had one near-miss today and the last thing he needed was more trouble. But then he thought of the alternative, of facing his gran again and wondering if she would recognize him, of clearing her house, the memories and doubts crowding in on him as he packed up a life.
‘Okay,’ he said, standing. ‘Give me the tour. But on one condition.’
Jen gave him a quizzical look.
‘When we’re done I get to cook you dinner.’
‘Depends,’ she said.
‘On what?’
‘Whether the offer comes with the takeaway guarantee. If you’re a crap cook I want a pizza. No arguments. And you pay for the stuffed crust as an apology.’
Connor laughed. ‘Deal,’ he said.