The discovery of Helen Russell’s identity was like stabbing a syringe of adrenalin into the heart of the investigation. It galvanized resources and drew the attention of those who were content to keep the whole mess at arm’s length when it was only an unidentified woman and a low-level thug who had been brutally beaten and slain. But when it was discovered that the second victim was a long-standing member of the Scottish Tories, everything was cast into a new light. Griffin’s cheap tattoo and political background suddenly became a major line of enquiry, the manner of both deaths a cause for concern in the corridors of power.
Ford felt a strange mix of fury and weary acceptance when he and Chief Superintendent Doyle were summoned by the chief constable. He’d known what was coming the moment the case conference was cancelled. He told himself it was nothing personal.
Everything was political, these days.
‘Given the profile of Mrs Russell, and the possible Loyalist link to the Griffin murder, it has been decided that Special Investigations will liaise with Special Branch, which will now be leading on both investigations,’ Guthrie told Ford and Doyle, in the same cramped room where he had been briefed by Danny less than two hours before. He seemed smaller to Ford, diminished somehow, the only part of him showing any lustre was the epaulettes on his uniform, which winked in the glare of the strip lighting overhead.
‘DCI Ford, if you could prepare your casework for transfer. You may need, of course, to second some of your officers depending on workloads, but your primary responsibility will be to ensure a smooth and efficient handover, and facilitate any request Special Branch may have.’
Ford kept his breathing steady as he murmured agreement, an image of Billy Griffin’s mutilated head flashing across his mind. He knew all too well what Guthrie’s order meant. Give up your office, get out of the way. Prepare to have your staff assigned every shit detail and piece of legwork going. The big boys are coming to town to show the local yokels how it’s done. ‘Of course, sir,’ he managed, ignoring the sharp look from Doyle beside him.
Guthrie held his gaze for a moment, as though confirming something for himself. Then he straightened his back, as though the action would inject some authority into his voice. It didn’t.
‘You will, of course, keep yourself available at all times tomorrow in case Mr Ferguson wishes to speak to you and discuss your work on the case up to this point.’
Ford winced, hoped it didn’t show on his face. Ferguson. It explained why Guthrie looked and sounded like a child who had just had his favourite toy taken away. Two murders in two days was a bad headline at any time, but given the negative press the police service had been experiencing recently, it had been seized on not only by the press but the politicians too.
Danny, who was doing his best to prove himself invaluable after the whole Donna Blake cluster-fuck, was providing Ford with regular updates on how the story was playing out. The short answer was badly, which made sense of Ferguson’s imminent visit. He wanted – needed – to be seen to be taking charge of the situation, show that he could rise above politics to find a merciless killer and keep all the precious voters of Stirling safe. More importantly, Ferguson’s visit would give him the perfect opportunity to find a scapegoat for this mess, deflect it away from the government’s management of Police Scotland, the lack of resources and the overstretched staff, back onto the shoulders of the officers who were on the ground.
Ford was going to make sure it wouldn’t be him.
Message delivered, Guthrie dismissed them. They were walking along a narrow corridor when Doyle’s pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone without breaking stride, clamped it to his ear and snapped a greeting in a tone that said he almost hoped it was bad news, something or someone to focus his frustration on.
It wasn’t. He stopped dead, surprising Ford, who continued down the hall for a couple of steps before he registered what had happened. He turned, closed the gap between them, a silent question pulling his eyebrows high on his forehead. Doyle held up a silencing hand.
‘Yes . . . No. Of course. I understand. But you have to realize . . . No. Not at all. How could I? . . . No problem. Text me the details.’ He ended the call, gazed at the phone. It buzzed a moment later, the text he had mentioned being delivered.
‘Sir?’
Doyle looked up, as though startled from a daydream.
‘Sir, are you all right? Was that—’
Doyle held up his hand again. His eyes darted around Ford’s face as he stared at him, a nerve pulsing in his jaw. Then his gaze hardened into a decision. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask, Ford,’ he said, his voice as still as his stare. ‘There’s someone I need you to talk to.’