The ministerial car swept into Randolphfield just after ten a.m., Doyle standing beside Chief Constable Guthrie, who was doing his best impression of a waxwork dummy dressed as a policeman – back ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead.
He was moving before the car even stopped, stepping forward and waiting as the back door swung open. A tall, lithe man with ash-blond hair unfolded himself from the back of the car, smoothing his tie into place as he straightened, fixing his gaze on the chief. He strode forward, hand out, even as the other two occupants of the car got out.
‘Chief Constable,’ the man said, the faintest echo of the west coast in his tone. ‘Maxwell Higgins. I’m Mr Ferguson’s senior special adviser.’ He stepped to the side, clearing a path for the other members of the party. ‘Of course you know Mr Ferguson, and this is Lucy Mitchell, who is chief of staff to the First Minister, and also leads our communications department.’
Panic flashed across Guthrie’s face at the mention of the First Minister, the severity of the situation suddenly underlined. To his credit, he recovered quickly and offered enthusiastic handshakes, welcoming Ferguson and Mitchell with all the warmth he could muster. Doyle flinched at the scene. The chief had been hired because he was a grey man, good with numbers and unlikely to rock the boat, characteristics that shone in the lack of social ease he displayed.
Guthrie introduced the three to Doyle, who received the perfunctory handshakes and murmured greetings before they turned their attention back to the chief. Message received: he was only a lackey, not important to them. Doyle didn’t mind. He was in no rush to be useful, especially as, when he was, it would be as a scapegoat.
He thought briefly of Ford, of the wisdom of sending him to meet Fraser. The chief would explode if he found out. It ran contrary to every procedure in the book and every instinct Ford had developed over his long career. But what could he do when Lachlan Jameson asked for a favour? And, besides, if they were going to use him and his DCI to take the blame for the failings in the case, why not see if they could get a result through other means?
Guthrie bustled them into the building, leading them to a conference room that had been set up for the justice secretary’s visit with refreshments and a laptop hooked up to a projector, a lectern at the head of the table. Doyle didn’t think they were going to like the presentation Guthrie had made him prepare, and found he didn’t care. They were here to get the facts of the case, make it look like Ferguson was fully up to speed and in control. And while it was unusual for a special adviser, who was effectively a member of the minister’s political party and made suggestions accordingly, and the First Minister’s right-hand woman to be privy to such a confidential briefing, Guthrie had insisted they be vetted and approved to hear the facts.
Fine. Doyle would get him up to speed. And fact one was that murder wasn’t pretty.
He waited until they were settled, tuned out Guthrie as he made his opening comments – all the usual clichés about the team working well together, following firm lines of enquiry, solid police work and good progress. His ears pricked up when he heard the mention of Special Branch now being involved due to Helen Russell’s political links and the tattoo on Billy Griffin’s chest.
‘. . . and I think that’s a good point to hand you over to Superintendent Doyle,’ Guthrie said, with a smile, to the minister. Ferguson, a small squat man with wiry hair slicked tight to his skull and a double chin that rubbed on his shirt collar, gave a nod, jowls quivering. ‘Please, Superintendent Doyle,’ he said, his accent clipped and Highland. Inverness, maybe.
Doyle stood up, walked to the lectern at the far end of the table, opposite Ferguson. He flicked a button on the small panel that lay there, the soft whine of a motor filling the room as the blinds swivelled shut and the projector flared into life.
‘As of this morning, we have had three murders within five miles of each other.’ He tapped a key on the laptop, a slide showing an aerial view of Stirling and the surrounding area with three large Xs marking the crime scenes dotted across it. He looked at it for a moment, pondered. Christ, but they were close. ‘The first body was discovered at approximately six twenty-two a.m. by a dog-walker in the grounds of Cowane’s Hospital. The victim was found to have been severely beaten before death, and badly mutilated.’ He paused, looked at his visitors. Of the three, Mitchell was the only one who looked like she was taking anything in. The other two were braced in their chairs, unease tightening their faces. He felt a twinge of admiration for Mitchell, then wondered if her attitude was based on the fact that she didn’t know what was coming next.
Too bad. Just the facts.
He hit the keyboard again, the next slide jumping onto the screen. Heard sharp intakes of breath from around the room. ‘As you know, the victim, William Griffin, was also decapitated.’ He had spared them the worst of it, left out the pictures of the body. But this was bad enough. There was something about the image of the metal spike, the head removed, a streak of gore running down it, that haunted Doyle. He was glad the others felt it too.
‘The victim’s head was mounted on this spike, and left at the door of the Holy Rude. He was also found to have had a rat stuffed into his mouth. From the damage to his tongue, cheeks and interior of his mouth, the pathologist has suggested the animal may have been alive when it was inserted.’
Doyle heard a groan, looked up to see Higgins cough into a handkerchief, his face drawn. Ferguson looked at him with bored disgust, while Mitchell kept her eyes trained straight ahead, her hands clasped around a pen.
Doyle flicked to the next slide, took them through the discovery of Helen Russell at the hotel on the grounds of the uni. He hurried through the facts, not wanting to give Ferguson the chance to start asking about the news report that had been sent from the scene.
‘Finally,’ he said, flicking to the last slide, a nondescript shot of a small tent erected in the car park of Valley FM, a white-suited SOCO wraith-like in the foreground, ‘we received a call at two eleven this morning, reporting the discovery of a body at the premises of Valley FM, a local radio station. As with the first victim, this body had been severely mutilated and, again, decapitated. We’ve identified the victim as a Matthew Evans, an employee of the station.’
Higgins’s wavering voice floated from the gloom. ‘And the, ah, the head. Was it, eh, mounted as the first victim’s was?’
Good question. ‘Not specifically, no,’ Doyle said. ‘But it was left on the roof of a car, which could be deemed to be displaying it in another fashion.’ He went on, detailing the steps taken, the officers canvassing the areas, checking for links between the three victims, and finished with an update on the handover to Special Branch.
Ferguson spoke first, shifting his bulk in his chair and wrapping blunt, chubby fingers around a glass of water in front of him. ‘The investigating officer who was initially involved in these enquiries, DCI Ford. How would you rate his performance in this matter, Superintendent?’
Doyle’s gaze hardened on Ferguson. Prick. Forget the fact that three people had been murdered, probably by one nut job, who was still out there. Let’s play the blame game. Thank Christ he was retiring. ‘DCI Ford is an exemplary officer, sir,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the soft pink flesh that spilt over Ferguson’s collar. ‘He has worked these cases to the best of his ability, in the face of extreme resource pressure and the demands of the press.’
Mitchell stirred in her seat, scrawled a note even as Guthrie fired Doyle a look filled with warning. Rein it in, that look said.
Doyle didn’t care. Just the facts, after all.
‘Hm, well, thank you, Superintendent. I’d like to speak to DCI Ford if possible. Where is he at the moment?’
Doyle felt heat in his cheeks, hoped it didn’t show. ‘DCI Ford is preparing the last of the case notes for Special Branch and assigning officers to support them,’ he said, ignoring the cold glare from Guthrie.
‘Quite so,’ Ferguson said. ‘Well, thank you, Superintendent. I wonder if you could show Maxwell and Lucy where they might find the canteen and get a little fresh air. I daresay they need it after that, and I want a word with your chief in private.’
Higgins and Guthrie exchanged worried glances, Higgins speaking first. ‘Ah, Mr Ferguson, I’m sure it would be more beneficial if I—’
‘Nonsense, Maxwell,’ Ferguson snapped, with the impatience of a man not used to being questioned. ‘I just need a quick word with Peter, that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about.’
Higgins opened his mouth, closed it. Checked a watch that seemed too large for his wrist. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘We have the press conference at noon. Shall we meet you back here at a quarter to for a briefing?’
‘Ideal,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now go on. Peter and I need to have a chat.’
Doyle led them out of the room, turned back to see Ferguson leaning close to Guthrie, who looked more like a waxwork than ever, especially with the grey pallor of his skin. He caught his boss’s gaze for just a second, saw the desperation of a man who knew he was about to get a world-class bollocking.
He closed the door and left them to it. Decided today wasn’t such a bad day after all.