Ford stood in a hastily requisitioned office at Randolphfield, staring at the wall-mounted TV. The chief was in front of it, arms crossed, glaring. Danny was close to the door, watching Guthrie intently, as though he were some wild animal that was about to leap at him and tear his throat out at any moment. Given what they had just seen, Ford guessed the odds of that actually happening were fairly even.
At least, he thought, Danny had warned him the call from Blake was coming, which had given him time to get his anger out of the way, allowed him to handle it professionally. He had stonewalled her questions on Billy Griffin and the extent of his injuries, managed to persuade her to be vague in her report with the promise of further insights as the case progressed. It was an expedient lie that got him – and the investigation – out of an immediate and very dark hole.
But the question remained: who had told her? He had pressed her on where she’d got the information on Griffin and what had been found at the Stirling Court, threatened her with every charge he could think of, to no avail. All she would say was that none of the information she had was provided by anyone in Forth Valley or directly linked to the investigation.
Looking at Danny now, and the wary anxiety with which he was watching Guthrie, Ford almost believed her.
‘So, gentlemen,’ Guthrie said, eyes not moving from the television, ‘what do you suggest we do next?’
Danny surprised Ford by speaking first. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, his voice as anxious as his gaze, ‘it’s not as bad as it might have been. I understand Blake did a report for the local radio station as well as the TV piece we’ve just seen, and if she kept the details we asked her to withhold out of that as well, I think this is a result. The story is out, we’re seen to be working on the investigation, and this could jog memories and help us identify the second victim.’
‘That’s hardly the fucking point, is it, Brooks?’ Guthrie said. ‘The fact that this information got out at all is an absolute disgrace.’ His eyes slid from Danny to Ford. ‘Tell me, DCI Ford, just what type of investigation are you running here?’
Ford bit back the answer he wanted to give. So it was his investigation again, was it? At the press conference, Guthrie had all but said it would be handed over to Special Investigations, with him pulling the strings. Now that the shit was hitting the fan again, it was Ford’s problem to deal with.
‘Sir,’ he said, keeping his tone neutral, looking at a point just over Guthrie’s shoulder to ensure he stayed calm, ‘with all due respect, my officers and I are doing the best we can. We’re running the ID checks on the second victim as fast as resources allow, and we’re double-checking with Glasgow about Griffin’s last known whereabouts. We’re also pulling all available CCTV footage to try to . . .’
Guthrie waved him into silence. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s all well and good, but we need some bloody results. I’ve already had Ken Ferguson breathing down my neck, and at this rate I’ll have the First Minister knocking at my door by the end of the day. This is not good, DCI Ford, not good at all.’
Despite himself, Ford felt a sliver of sympathy for Guthrie. The justice secretary, Ken Ferguson, had not had an easy time since he’d been given the job three months ago. With the government being constantly beaten over the head by political opponents and the press about the well-publicized problems at Police Scotland – and the matter of how a previous chief constable had left due to some of his more hands-on working practices – the service was a constant headache for Ferguson. He was known for his temper, enjoyed shouting down senior officers, who were stripped of their own authority the moment they walked into his office. It had gained him a nickname among the ranks: Fuck You Ferguson. And he would be looking for someone to blame for this mess, especially with that bitch Blake putting it all on show.
‘Sir, you know what these cases are like – long hours and legwork. We’re increasing foot patrols in the centre of town and around the castle area to reassure residents and tourists, and we’re using every channel we have to get information. With Special Investigations taking a role, that should give us more manpower to help speed things up.’
Guthrie nodded, then turned his attention to Danny. ‘Get this managed, son,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what it takes, but no more fucking leaks, understood? Bad enough this got out, even if we managed to exert a modicum of control, but no more. Clear?’
‘Totally, sir,’ Danny said.
‘Right. Get on it,’ Guthrie said, as he pulled his hat so tightly onto his head that it forced his ears down. ‘And, Ford, the moment you have anything . . .’
‘I’ll let you know, sir, though I take it you’ll be at the update briefing later?’
‘Actually, no. I have to update Fu– Ferguson, so I won’t attend.’
Bastard, Ford thought. Trying to put some space between himself and the case while it was toxic. Typical politician.
‘Very good, sir. Can I see you out?’
‘No need. Brooks here can do that,’ Guthrie replied. Ford was sure he saw Danny flinch.
‘Uh . . . Of course, sir,’ Danny said, swinging the door open.
When they had left, Ford closed his eyes and took a moment to soak in the silence. He wanted to go home. Wanted bed. Sleep. To see Mary. Instead, he had this, and no end in sight. ‘Miles to go,’ he muttered.
His mobile chirped in his pocket, forcing him from his thoughts.
‘Troughton?’ He listened, felt tension bunch his shoulders as the detective sergeant spoke.
‘We’ve got an ID on the second victim. It’s Helen Russell.’
‘Who? I know that name, why would I . . .’
‘She’s a councillor, sir, Tory, Stirling North. Reported missing by her husband an hour ago. He thought she was away at a party event at the Parliament in Edinburgh, got worried when she didn’t come home and she didn’t answer her mobile.’
Ford felt his mouth go dry. Fuck. A councillor. A public figure. More headlines. That was the last thing he needed.
‘Okay,’ he said, the information hitting him like a shot of caffeine. ‘Get everyone assembled. Case conference in one hour. Run her name with Griffin’s, see if there are any connections. I doubt there will be, but the chief will ask.’
‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’
‘Not for now. I’ll be back down shortly,’ Ford said, and killed the call.
He stood for a moment, considering his phone, trying to order his thoughts. One came to him, randomly, and he spoke in the silence: ‘Helen Russell. So who the hell is Connie?’