He told himself he wasn’t going to make the call.
When Chief Superintendent Doyle had broached the subject with him, Ford’s first thought was that he was going mad. Here was a senior officer, a career policeman of almost thirty years’ experience, asking one of his senior detectives to discuss confidential details of an ongoing inquiry with a civilian.
Ford was too stunned to speak, turning to walk away from his boss in a show of disrespect that would have been unthinkable only an hour ago. He got about ten feet away when he felt Doyle’s fingers bite into his arm and spin him round. Doyle’s face was a mask of tension, his lips thin and bloodless beneath the pencil moustache flecked with grey, his brown eyes darting over Ford’s face, as though he was trying to read what he was about to say next on his detective’s features. He found it, his gaze hardening, his voice a harsh whisper. ‘Malcolm, please. Just hear me out. You don’t like it, then report me, but at least hear me out first.’
And that was when Ford saw something he had never seen before in his boss. Something he had assumed was for lesser mortals like himself and Troughton.
Doubt.
He followed Doyle to his office, and took a seat when told to do so. Doyle sat heavily behind his desk then leant to the side, his balding head glinting in the overhead strip lights. There was the sound of a drawer opening, soft clinking, then Doyle reappeared, the effort of bending over putting some colour back into his pallid complexion.
He didn’t ask, just poured two fingers of whisky into each glass and slid one to Ford. Almost on instinct, Ford lifted it to his nose, felt the peaty tang of Laphroaig bite at his nostrils. ‘Very nice, sir,’ he lied. He had no tolerance for the acrid burn of peaty whiskies, preferring instead the warming smoothness of a Speyside malt. But today was not the day to be discussing whisky with his boss. Better to keep things calm. Bide his time. Try to find out what the hell was going on.
Doyle raised his glass in silent toast, took a deep sip. He held it in front of him, swirling the amber liquid, staring into it as though it was a crystal ball. The silence dragged out, just long enough for Ford to start to feel uncomfortable. Eventually Doyle spoke. ‘They’re going to take it away from us, Malcolm,’ he said finally, his voice as acidic and bitter as the whisky he had just poured.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
Doyle looked at him, sorrow and anger in his eyes. ‘The case,’ he said. ‘You heard the chief. Special Branch are going to take over due to the political links. So they’re going to blunder around, focus on Helen Russell’s past, do everything they can to make Ferguson feel reassured and keep the press happy. And in the meantime, other lines of enquiry are going to be left to die.’
Ford squirmed in his seat, felt a sudden urge to sip the whisky. ‘Yes, sir, but—’
‘But what?’ Doyle spat, his voice low with anger. ‘This is our fucking case. There are two victims here, and I’ll be damned if the last major inquiry I work on is a fuck-up that is handed over to the big boys because us local yokels are too thick to work it.’
Ford said nothing, trying to process this new information. He hadn’t known Doyle was retiring. As far as he knew, no one did. He was a lifer, a policeman who’d joined at eighteen and clawed his way up the ranks. The thought of him not being on the job raised fresh doubt in Ford’s mind. Was it time to take the hint? To get out while he could?
But then he saw it in his mind, heard the low squeal of steel in the wind, Billy Griffin’s head mounted on a spike like an excised tumour, blood and gore dripping from it, the rat hanging from the mouth. Doyle was right. It was their case, their responsibility. But . . . ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t follow. What does the case being reassigned have to do with you asking me to talk to a civilian?’
Doyle drained the last of his glass, then reached for a refill. He left the bottle uncorked, a silent invitation to Ford. ‘Let’s just say I owe an old friend a favour,’ he said, eyes focusing on something only he could see just over Ford’s shoulder. He shook himself, brought his attention back to the present. ‘I trust the man who called me, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘Like you and I, he took an oath to serve, just in slightly more exotic locations and with stricter discipline. And the man he asked me to put you in touch with is hardly a civilian either. He’s a former PSNI officer.’
Ford took a sip of the whisky, let it soothe the jumble of half-formed questions and theories clanging around in the fog of his brain. The Police Service of Northern Ireland. An obvious link to Billy Griffin’s Red Hand of Ulster tattoo. He had another sip as he felt his resolve waver, the thought of speaking to the man taking on an appeal that overrode common sense and the knowledge that he would be breaking every rule in the book by doing so. ‘What else can you tell me about him?’ he asked, playing for time, willing Doyle to say something that would slam the door shut on this insanity.
‘Not much,’ Doyle admitted. ‘Look, Malcolm, I know this is highly unorthodox. But nothing in this case makes any fucking sense and, whoever this guy is, he might be able to help. My, ah, contact wouldn’t ask if he didn’t know we could trust this man’s discretion, and if there’s any blowback from this, I’ll take it.’
‘Sir, I . . .’
Doyle drained his second glass. ‘Bottom line, Malcolm? I’m tired. I’ve seen this force bent and twisted into something I don’t recognize merely on a political whim. Officers, Christ, friends I’ve known for almost thirty years are bailing out because they can’t take it. And neither can I. Used to be that being a police officer was what counted. These days, all that matters is making the accounts balance. Whoever did this, if it is one killer and the cases are connected, is bad news, Malcolm. And he’s on our patch. I’m out. But I want to be a copper one last time, follow the evidence, build a case. And if I have to step outside the bounds of the mighty Police Scotland to do so, then so be it. If you can’t help me, fine. But you know the case, Malcolm, and I know you want this bastard as much as I do. So, please.’
Ford looked at his boss, seeing not the officer but the ground-down old man who sat before him. He felt as though he was teetering on a cliff edge, at once terrified and exhilarated at the prospect of leaping into the unknown. ‘What’s his name?’
Hope flashed in Doyle’s eyes, bright and fleeting. ‘Fraser. Connor Fraser. Lives in town apparently.’
The name was like a gut punch. Ford rocked back in his chair, felt whisky slosh over his hand, thoughts crackling through his mind.
Connor? What was it the dedication in the book said? Not the same edition, but the same horror story. Hope you like it, Connie. See you soon. L.
Connor. Connie.
The words spun through his mind, rattling around like a ball in a roulette wheel. It was a coincidence. Surely.
Connor. Connie. That tattoo. The injuries to the corpse around the joints. He’d looked it up. It was a paramilitary punishment method where the joints of the knee, elbows and ankles were targeted with a gun or blunt object, the brutality masked by its colloquial name ‘the Belfast six-pack’.
Connie. Connor.
The squeal of the steel in the wind, the frozen scream on Griffin’s face, the rat tail dangling from the mouth.
He downed the whisky, let it burn away his indecision. ‘How do I find him?’