Connor sat in his flat, mind racing with possibilities, each less attractive than the last. He knew the call would cause him trouble, but he didn’t care. He needed information. Badly. And Lachlan Jameson could get it for him. He’d proven that the day they’d first met.
It was a month after everything had gone wrong in Belfast. Connor was back home, opting to rent a crappy flat just off Leith Walk in Edinburgh rather than living in Stirling, which, after the death of his mother, felt like a ghost-ridden no man’s land in the ongoing war of silence between him and his father. He was mostly living off his savings, but the money was fast running out, and the side income he was making from giving personal training sessions at a high-class hotel on the Bridges wasn’t cutting it.
He was on his way to one of those classes, resigned to spending an hour with a bored housewife – too much money, too little class and too much oestrogen – as he put her through her paces in the gym. He had already decided he would up the weights, intensify the cardio. It wasn’t going to be the type of sweat she was hoping to work up with him, but it was the best she was going to get.
He was just walking up the Bridges admiring, as he always did, the view across the roof of Waverley station to the Scott Monument and the castle when his phone rang, an unrecognized number on the screen.
‘Hello.’ No names. Not for an unknown caller. Let them make the first move.
‘Hello,’ a voice boomed, the bass accentuating the clipped elocution. ‘Connor Fraser?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Mr Fraser, I’m Lachlan Jameson, and I’d like to discuss an opportunity with you.’
He’d met him a day later, at the office of Sentinel Securities in a nondescript industrial park tucked behind the Gyle shopping centre. Against his better judgement, Connor found he liked the man straight away. He was tall and thin, given extra height and presence by the way he constantly seemed to be standing to attention, shoulders thrust back, spine ramrod straight, chest out. With his tweed suit, impeccable grooming and angular, almost hawkish features, he might as well have had ‘ex-army’ tattooed across his forehead.
The meeting was like Jameson’s haircut: short, efficient, straight to the point. Connor was ushered into a corner office with windows for walls, the view of the industrial estate drab, the perfunctory greenery that had been dotted around to make it look less brutal only enhancing its functional appearance.
‘Please,’ he said, gesturing Connor to take a seat.
Connor took the chair directly opposite Jameson, who had barricaded himself behind a huge oak desk that was out of place with the cool, modern elegance of the rest of the offices but seemed to fit the room, and its occupant, perfectly.
‘So,’ he said, lacing his fingers together. ‘I take it you’ve done a little background on us by now, Mr Fraser. What do you think?’
Connor smiled slightly. First test. Did you do your homework? ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘You’ve been running Sentinel for the last ten years, since you retired from the army and took a stint in private contracting, mostly in the Middle East, protecting oil execs from jihadis and kidnap threats. Since then, you’ve “built Sentinel into one of the most prestigious private and close security firms in the country”.’
Jameson dipped his head, acknowledging the quote Connor had lifted from the company website, and the background detail on his military career he definitely had not. From what his contacts and background research told him, Lachlan Jameson was an enthusiastic private-sector operative. Connor had been coy in his description, but he’d been given enough hints that the man in front of him wasn’t purely a protector. If the money was right, he could turn his hand to hunting too.
‘We work with politicians, high-net-worth individuals, VIPs, diplomats. We offer a range of personal-security solutions, from escorting to reconnaissance and close protection. And I think this is where you come in, Mr Fraser.’
‘How so?’ Connor said, asking the question that had been plaguing him since the call the previous day. He had others too: how had Jameson got his number? How had he even known he was back in Scotland? But those would come later.
Jameson leant back in his chair. ‘A large part of this business is intelligence, Mr Fraser,’ he said, with a precision that told Connor he had given this speech before. ‘Knowing which assets are on the board at any time. I have contacts. One of them reached out to me, told me that a talented officer with a bright future had abruptly abandoned a career with the Police Service of Northern Ireland to return home. He tells me the official reason was family bereavement, but I think we can dispense with that formality, can’t we?’
Connor felt as though he had just been stabbed with a shard of ice. He blinked away the memory of Belfast, of air scalding his lungs as he fought for breath, his fists numb and blood-soaked, a crumpled body gurgling and moaning at his feet. ‘I, ah . . .’
Jameson raised a hand. ‘As I said, unimportant. You did what you thought was right. Took direct action. I appreciate that. But the fact remains, here you are, squandering your training and talent. My question is, would you be willing to use them for me?’
He had made the job offer on the spot, and Connor had taken a day to accept it. In that time he called every contact he still trusted in Belfast to see who had spoken about him – every one of them had come back with the same answer: Not us, but this guy must be connected.
Connor hoped that was the case now. He needed it to be.
He called the number. Waited.
‘Connor. Nice to hear from you. Where’s that report you owe me?’
He screwed his eyes shut, ground the cool of the gun butt against his temple. ‘Lachlan, sorry about that. I’ll get to it, I promise. But right now, I need a favour.’
‘Oh, really?’ Jameson said, irritation creeping into his tone. Connor could understand it. As a former lieutenant colonel, Lachlan Jamieson was used to having orders followed promptly. For an employee to ask a favour without completing an assignment was anathema to him.
‘Yes, Lachlan. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.’
A soft grunt at the other end of the line as Jameson sat in his office chair. ‘Urgency is relative, Connor,’ he said. ‘Tell me what this is about, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Connor paused for a second. How much could he tell him? How much would he tell him? He took a deep breath. ‘I take it you’ve been keeping up with the news, the murders here?’
‘Yes, indeed I have.’ A pause, then humour lightened his tone. ‘Don’t tell me you’re taking it personally and have decided to go vigilante on home ground?’
Connor grated out a laugh. ‘Nothing like that, but there’s something about the university murder that got me thinking. And I was wondering if you had anyone in the local police force I could talk to. With all your contacts, I thought you must know someone.’
He waited, hoping his pandering to Jameson’s ego hadn’t been too obvious.
‘Hmm . . . There may be someone I could put you in touch with, but my question, again, is why? This doesn’t concern you, Connor, and the last thing I need is an employee of Sentinel Securities making a mess in two murder investigations. Our clients demand discretion, remember?’
‘Of course,’ Connor said. ‘Call it professional curiosity, but there’s something I want to verify. I’ll keep it quiet, Lachlan, I promise.’
‘Very well.’ Jameson sighed. ‘I’ll indulge you this once. I have someone in mind and I’ll get them to call you shortly. This number okay?’
‘Fine,’ Connor agreed, trying to keep the edge of impatience out of his tone. How long was ‘shortly’? The longer he waited, the closer Hughes, or whoever it was, could be getting. He needed answers. Now.
‘Very well. But, Connor, you realize there’s a price to be paid for this?’
Connor tightened his grip on the gun. ‘No problem, Lachlan. I’ll have that report to you within the hour. And thanks, I owe you.’
‘Yes,’ Jameson said bluntly. ‘You do. Just remember that, Connor.’