The station was a riot of activity when Ford arrived just before six a.m., the air electric with the nervous energy, trepidation and excitement that a major case always brought with it. The paper-pushing and bureaucratic bullshit were swept aside by the brutal, visceral reminder of what they were facing, what they were trying to protect people from.
Chaos. Utter chaos.
He was halfway to the incident room when Doyle caught up with him, his skin pale and waxy, eyes sharp and glittering in dark sockets that spoke of a long, broken night.
‘DCI Ford,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
Ford glanced up the corridor, felt the tug of the incident room.
‘Now, Malcolm,’ Doyle repeated, heading off down the corridor.
A minute later they were in Doyle’s office, the smell of stale cigarettes doing nothing to mask the sour tang of whisky that hung in the air. Looking again at Doyle, Ford wondered how much of his appearance was down to exhaustion and how much to a hangover.
‘Have you managed to speak to our contact yet?’ Doyle asked as he settled behind his desk, the chair seeming to engulf him.
‘Ah, not yet, sir. I mean, I spoke to him, and we arranged to meet later today, but now, with what happened at Valley FM . . .’ He gestured to the window and the bustle of activity outside.
Doyle nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving Ford. ‘Keep that appointment, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘And do us both a favour, lie low today.’
Ford felt as though he had been slapped. ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t understand. If there’s been another murder, and by the sounds of it, it followed the same MO of the previous two, then surely it’s my responsibility to . . .’
Doyle held up a hand. ‘Malcolm, the best thing you can do is get out of here and lie low. This was turning into a nasty little political game before this DJ, Evans, was butchered, but now . . .’ He trailed off, distaste twisting his face into something hard and unreadable.
‘Sorry, sir, I’m still not sure I follow,’ Ford said. He knew the words for the lie they were, knew what was coming. It was, after all, politics.
Doyle straightened in his chair, interlaced his fingers on the desk in front of him. ‘I told you yesterday, Malcolm. Helen Russell’s position as a councillor cast this whole case in a new light. It’s why Special Branch have been dragged in, especially with the possible paramilitary link to Billy Griffin. It’s all a bit . . . sectarian, for their taste. But last night’s murder really kicked up a shit-storm. The justice secretary is due to visit today, a private meeting that, surprise, surprise, has been leaked to the press. And, just to really roll out the welcome mat for him, we’ve had another murder. That’s three murders in two days, Malcolm. Makes us look inept, stupid. And it blows a fucking bastard of a hole in the government’s claim that crime is at its lowest level in ten years. So, what do you think they want to do about it?’
It was obvious, really. ‘They want a scapegoat,’ Ford said, more to himself than to Doyle. ‘And as I was the lead officer on Griffin and Russell, I’m in the frame. Right, sir?’
Doyle looked down at his hands, then back up at Ford. ‘It won’t be anything official,’ he said, exhaustion making his voice a low growl. ‘I’ve looked through your case files and you followed every procedure to the letter. Did some good work in pulling the background on Griffin, too. But you know they’ll spin this, Malcolm. With the shit the force is in at the moment, they need to wash their hands of this one, show it was the fault of one officer, not a breakdown of the service or the work of an uncatchable psycho. They’re keeping you off the case pending a review by Special Branch, and the Evans murder has been assigned to other officers who are being brought in from Edinburgh.’
Ford nodded. With the amalgamation of the eight police forces, it wasn’t uncommon for officers to be moved around the country to plug the ever-increasing number of staffing gaps. He felt a surge of anger to have this placed on his shoulders. ‘So, what am I meant to do, sir?’
‘Officially you’re to collate your paperwork for a handover with Special Branch and the Major Investigations team taking over. You’re also to make sure you’re at the disposal of the chief and Ferguson, should they wish to talk to you.’
‘Bollock me, more like,’ Ford said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.
‘Quite right,’ Doyle said. ‘So make yourself scarce. Get the fuck out of here and let me try to work something out.’
‘All right,’ Ford said. ‘But what about this Fraser guy? Surely with all this going on, the last thing I should do is talk to him.’
Doyle’s face tightened, and Ford again found himself wondering who had called his boss for a favour yesterday. And what Doyle owed that person that had made him agree so easily.
‘Meet him,’ he said. ‘Everything I said yesterday still applies. I want a result on this one, Malcolm, one last win before I go. Officially you’re not actively part of the investigation. But you’re still one of my best detectives. So meet him, see what he has to say and, if it’s useful, you can show these pencil-pushing fucks what real police work looks like.’