Ford had no idea what Connor Fraser looked like, but he knew him the moment he laid eyes on him.
They had arranged to meet in a small café on Bow Street, less than a two-minute walk from where Billy Griffin’s body had been found. Ford had felt a vague unease when Fraser had suggested the place, given its proximity to the crime scene. The last thing he needed was to be seen talking to a civilian. His anxieties began to ease as he approached the café – it was only a short walk away, but in the narrow cobbled streets around the castle, where tourists thronged even at this time of the morning, it might as well have been on another planet. And then there was Fraser. Whatever else he was, the last thing he looked like was a civilian.
He was sitting in the café, back to the exposed stone wall, as he watched the front door with an attentiveness only police officers had, the outward appearance of relaxation doing nothing to detract from the searchlight intensity of his gaze as he scanned for possible threats. He gave only the slightest nod when Ford entered, eyes never leaving him.
Ford returned the almost-greeting, ordered a coffee at the till, then wove his way through the tables to Fraser, who rose as he approached, uncurling and expanding, like a widening shadow. He was just shy of six feet tall, the broad shoulders, heavy jaw and wide chest offset by striking green eyes that spoke of quick thinking and calculation as they darted across Ford. The DCI took the outstretched hand, surprised by how gentle the handshake was.
‘Thanks for agreeing to this,’ Fraser said, as they sat down.
Ford chided himself for the surprise he felt when Fraser spoke. His accent was typical Central Scotland, halfway between the lyricism of Glasgow and the cooler precision of Edinburgh. What had he been expecting? ‘Not my idea,’ he said, leaning back to allow the waitress to set his coffee in front of him. She smiled at him, then was gone. ‘My boss owes yours a favour. Let’s leave it at that.’
Fraser knitted his hands together on the table in front of him, forming a shield around his coffee. ‘Fair enough. Nonetheless, I’m grateful. Maybe you can help me straighten a few things out.’
Ford bristled, but swallowed the irritation with a gulp of coffee so hot it brought tears to his eyes. Who did this guy think he was? Bad enough he had pulled strings to talk to a DCI on an active case, but to think Ford was just going to sit there and help him solve his own little problems . . . Fuck that.
Fraser raised a hand, obviously reading Ford’s thoughts. ‘Didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. ‘It’s just there’s something about the Helen Russell case that’s bothering me. I was hoping you could help. Who knows? Maybe I can help you too.’
Ford put down his cup, took a second to consider its contents. Old trick. Dictate the pace of the conversation. Show who was in control. But looking into Connor Fraser’s unflinching gaze, he wasn’t honestly sure who was. ‘What is it you think you know?’ he asked.
Fraser rolled his shoulders, eyes darting around the room before settling on Ford again. ‘When I watched the news report on Helen Russell’s murder, something struck me. There were, ah, similarities to the MO of a shitebag I had dealings with back in Belfast. The book you found on the body, well, it was a – a calling card of his. Jonny Hughes. Nasty wee prick, called himself the Librarian. Had family links to the Loyalists, used them as a shield for drug-dealing. I . . . What?’
Ford cursed internally. He’d thought he had a better poker face than that, but obviously not with this guy. He had felt a sting of excitement the moment Fraser had said ‘Loyalist’. It must have shown on his face. Stupid. He pushed it aside. ‘We’ll get to that in a minute. I’m glad you mentioned the book. I wanted to talk to you about that. There was an inscription in it, mentioning a Connie. And now, here you are, telling me you think there’s a link to someone you collared while you were in Belfast. Something you want to tell me, Connie?’
Fraser’s jaw twitched, his eyes narrowing slightly. Not the greatest poker player either. ‘That’s part of the reason I reached out to you,’ he said, his voice slow and measured. ‘It mirrors his actions in Belfast when trying to intimidate a . . . ah . . . witness in a case I worked on. But you looked like you were on to something a moment ago. What?’
Ford ground his teeth. Answer then redirect. Keep the conversation on track, going where he wanted it to. No, this guy was no civilian. He glanced around his surroundings, again wishing for the soothing familiarity of an interview room. But, with what Doyle had said, that wasn’t going to happen, not when the top brass were looking to paint a bullseye on his back. ‘Just something you said there,’ he said, trying to sound casual, ignoring the whispering voice in his head telling him to be careful. He needed to know. Took another gulp of coffee, cooler now, decided.
‘You said Loyalist,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘That might tie in to something we found at the first murder.’
A glitter of interest in Fraser’s eyes, keen and hungry. ‘What?’ he said, his tone telling Ford all he needed to know about the man. Doyle had told him he was a security consultant now, a former copper, someone they could trust. But in that moment Ford knew that Connor Fraser was none of those things. Fraser was a detective, driven by the desire – no, the need – to find the answer. It was the same compulsion that had driven Ford throughout his career.
‘The first victim had a tattoo,’ he said. ‘Red Hand of Ulster. If you’re saying you think there’s a link between the perp you knew in Belfast and the Russell murder, it links her to the first victim.’
Fraser nodded. ‘Who was he?’ he asked.
‘Just a small-time ned. Got into a bit of trouble during the independence referendum a few years ago.’ Ford stopped, let that sink in, the incident taking on new context and significance given what Fraser had just said about Loyalists. The image of Billy Griffin holding a flaming Yes banner aloft flitted through his mind. What the hell was going on here?
Fraser seemed to consider the words, then tilted his head. ‘Any links to Helen Russell?’ he asked. Obvious question. It was the same one Ford had asked.
‘Not that we’ve found yet,’ he replied, his frustration giving his voice a hard edge.
‘And you won’t find it now,’ Fraser said, leaning back. ‘Given that Special Branch have effectively frozen you out of the case.’
Ford started, his coffee cup jangling against the saucer as it jerked in his hand. ‘How the fuck did you find out about that?’ he hissed.
Fraser shrugged. ‘I got a call from our, ah, mutual friend about half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘Your boss called him with an update, apologized that you might not be able to tell me much.’
Ford forced himself to let go of the breath he had been holding. When Doyle had broached this madness, Ford had insisted on knowing where the request had come from – and why his boss would even consider it. Doyle had gone very quiet for a moment, then given him an answer that resolved every question.
‘We served together in the first Gulf War, were part of Desert Storm. He saved my life. But that’s my debt, not yours, Malcolm. So if you don’t feel you can help, don’t.’
Ford wasn’t a military man, but his father was, so he knew what this meant to Doyle. He had agreed to speak to a man he absolutely shouldn’t about a case he was being frozen out of.
Fraser nodded, an expression that might almost have been mistaken for sympathy stretching across his face. ‘You totally out of the picture?’
‘Mostly,’ Ford said. ‘Got to be on hand to take my telling-off if needed, though.’
‘Arse-covering bastards,’ Fraser said, draining his coffee. He straightened up, the first subtle indicator that he was winding the conversation up. He reached into his pocket, produced a business card, wrote on the back of it, then slid it towards Ford. ‘You’ve got my work number already,’ he said, ‘but this is my personal number. If you need anything, call me. I’ll be in touch later today with an update.’
Oily unease curled its way down Ford’s spine. ‘Update on what? What do you think you’re going to do? Look, I agreed to meet you because Doyle asked me to. But if you think I’m going to let you just charge into this and . . .’
Fraser raised his hand, and Ford spotted the calluses that ran along the base of his fingers like an uneven wall. Weightlifter. ‘Easy, DCI Ford,’ he said, with a brief smile. ‘I don’t intend to make waves, but I do have a stake in this. I’m just going to talk to a few people. You said yourself you won’t know if there are any links between the two victims because Special Branch won’t let you near it. I’ll ask around, see what I can find, let you know what I come up with.’
‘Why?’ Ford asked. ‘Why are you doing this? And why didn’t you report your concerns officially as a former officer? What went down with you and this Hughes character?’
Something flitted across Fraser’s eyes, dark and predatory. It made Ford suddenly conscious of what an imposing figure he was.
‘Let’s just say I’ve got my reasons, not all of them professional,’ Fraser said. ‘Good to meet you, DCI Ford. I’ll be in touch.’
‘I could make this official myself,’ Ford said, freezing Fraser as he rose. ‘Hell, after what you’ve just said, I should make it official. Take you in, get a statement on the record.’
Fraser stood to his full height. ‘You could,’ he agreed. ‘But you won’t. You did this as a favour to your boss, I appreciate that. But if you report this, you’ll have to explain how you found me, because the last thing I’m going to do is come forward voluntarily, which means exposing your boss. And yourself.’ He looked up briefly, out into the street beyond. He placed his hands on the table. ‘Look, chase up what I’ve told you, if you can. If it looks like it’s leading somewhere solid, you have my word I’ll give you a statement on the record. Believe it or not, I want whoever did this caught as much as you do.’
Ford stood slowly, felt a twinge of pain in his knee. ‘Okay,’ he said, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. ‘This is between us and Doyle. For now. But no fucking around, Fraser. You’re not a police officer any more. That’s my job.’
Fraser gave a wistful smile, extended his hand. They shook, then Fraser left without saying another word, picking his way through the tables with an agility that belied his size.
Ford watched him go, wondering what he was about to do, not sure he wanted to know the answer.