Donna stood outside the Portcullis, watching Mark’s car pull away, a strange hollowness in her chest.
It was odd, she thought. She had walked into the pub, anger and defiance churning in her gut, but when she’d seen him sitting at a table near the bar, she had felt it drain away, replaced by something she couldn’t quite name. He still looked the same, tall, lithe, with sharp features and a swarthy complexion, but there was a . . . vacancy about him. As though something vital had been stolen. She felt a stab of savage glee, then a flash of self-loathing as she found herself hoping it was losing her that had done this to him.
He gave a faltering smile as she approached, pushed a drink across the table towards her. They exchanged pleasantries, Donna keeping it brusque, businesslike. There was a conversation they weren’t having, both of them dancing around it, like fighters trying to get the measure of an opponent, neither willing to make the opening gambit. But it was a conversation they had to have. About Andrew. About whether Mark would have any role in his son’s life.
When Mark saw that Donna’s attitude wasn’t going to thaw, he abandoned the affable pretence and got down to business. He told her a story. One she barely believed. One that made her want to kiss and slap him at the same time.
‘I’m telling you this as I owe you,’ he had told her at the end.
Standing in the car park now, she knew that for the bullshit it was. He had told her because he needed her to break the story so he and everyone else could follow. Let the freelancer take the heat – didn’t matter, the story would be in the public domain and every news organization in the country could follow up on it. He dressed it up as her continuing to lead on it, showing she could break exclusive lines for the nationals, but he was using her. She hated him for it, hated herself more for admiring the way he was manipulating the news cycle, moving her like a chess piece to get to the story he wanted to write.
She looked down at the pad she still held and scanned the notes she had made, focusing on the name she had written in the centre of the page and circled. Beside it, there was one word, underlined three times, surrounded by question marks. She read it again, felt the magnitude press down on her.
She took her phone from her bag and called the number, a shudder twisting down her spine as she gazed along the cobbled street, past the entrance to the cemetery and towards Cowane’s Hospital.
The call was answered. ‘Donna, I really can’t—’
‘Danny,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘I’m calling you as a favour, giving you ten minutes’ head start on this, okay?’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ he asked, his tone telling her he didn’t want to know.
She felt excitement crackle through her veins. ‘As soon as I hang up on you, I’m going to call Ford,’ she said, unable to keep the smile off her face, even as her stomach churned with revulsion. ‘And I’m going to ask him two questions. On the record. And believe me, Danny, he’s going to come to you asking how to answer them. I’m going to ask him to confirm that the first victim was found to have a well-known Loyalist tattoo on his body, and that reports he was found decapitated in the grounds of Cowane’s Hospital yesterday morning are true.’
Danny’s voice was a strangled yelp of panic. ‘Fuck’s sake! Donna, how did you— You can’t! The chief, he’ll, well—’
‘Danny, calm down. You’re missing the point. This is good news for you.’
‘Oh? And how the fuck do you get that?’
‘Because, Danny, if he pushes me, I’ll confirm that my source for this is not within Randolphfield or anyone else in Police Scotland’s Forth Valley Division. Which puts you in the clear with Ford and the chief. And better than that, Danny, we’re even. So do what you need to do. Get your lines ready, because I’ll be calling Ford in ten minutes.’