Ford was noticeable by his absence from the press conference, having fielded questions at the previous one. From the look of it, Donna wasn’t the only one who noticed he wasn’t there: the chief constable, Guthrie, was sitting on the small stage, casting withering glances between Danny and the door to the briefing room.
As with the day before, a table stood on the stage, a Police Scotland lectern set up at the middle seat where Guthrie sat. To his immediate left there was a cadaver in an ill-fitting suit, whom Donna recognized as Detective Chief Superintendent Martin Doyle. She’d heard stories about him, a former soldier turned copper who had worked his way up the ranks. Rumour was he was getting ready to jack it in. From the look of him on the stage, his body was ahead of his thinking.
Next to him, just far enough away to be an observer rather than a participant, was the star attraction, Ken Ferguson. The justice secretary glared out at the assembled press, arms folded over a massive chest. Beads of sweat clung to his hairline, glistening in the lights, his double chin cascading over his collar. Donna had watched as he entered the room from a side door behind the stage: he had the walk of the cataclysmically overweight. Arms thrust out to the sides, head and shoulders thrown back as though to counterbalance the pendulous gut that hung over his waistband. He was a political heavyweight all right, just maybe not in the way he wanted to be perceived.
A man who was the polar opposite of Ferguson loitered at the side of the stage. Donna studied him, a vague sense of familiarity at the back of her mind. Tall, wiry, with a suit that looked as though he had been stitched into it that morning, small, elegant glasses perched on a long, blade-like nose. While Ferguson sweated, this guy exuded a clinical manner. Beside him stood a woman in a sharp business suit, a folder barricading her chest, like a shield, her gaze fixed on Ferguson. Donna made a mental note to ask Danny who they were, made a bet with herself that they were officials from the party, here to make sure everyone got the message.
And it was crystal clear. This was a police operation. The government was merely there to observe. Closely.
She watched as Guthrie droned on, stuttering and muttering his way through an update on the investigation, which ultimately amounted to a lot of reassurance and very few new facts. She kept her head down when the briefing turned to the discovery of Matt Evans’s body, glad to have bagged a seat near the back of the room. She knew she was on thin ice reporting on a murder she had discovered and, technically, could be a suspect in. Fiona Clarke had made the point in no uncertain terms when they had spoken earlier on the phone. Given the work she had done so far, they were going to cut her a little slack, but if she got into anything sticky, or the police uttered the magic words ‘We are looking for one suspect in relation to these murders,’ it was game over for her.
She jotted notes, pinged a text to Danny, watched as his phone lit up, drawing a frown from the wiry man standing next to him. Danny looked up, and the wiry man followed his gaze, eyes landing on Donna. It was the briefest glance, but it intensified her feeling that she knew him from somewhere else.
Just who the hell was he?
Her phone vibrated in her hand – a reply from Danny to her request for an on-camera with Ferguson when this was over: He’s doing a huddle out front, doesn’t want to get in the way of the main presser. Get out early and get a spot. Front steps.
She sent a thank-you, focused back on Guthrie, who was now talking about tracing the victims’ movements and trying to establish any connections that would link them together and provide a motive.
Donna wondered about that. Three victims – a small-time ned, a local councillor and a loudmouth talk-show host with a penchant for insulting politicians and anyone else he could think of. There must be a link other than the way they had died. But, then, was that even a link? Of the three, only two, the men, had been decapitated. From what little Danny had been willing to tell her, Helen Russell had been beaten as badly as the others, but her head had been, mostly, left on her shoulders. Why?
She stirred from her thoughts, nodded to Gary, the lank-haired cameraman Fiona had sent from Edinburgh to put the report together with her. Excused herself, keeping low as though she was leaving a showing of the world’s worst movie, then headed for the door. She could feel eyes on her as she moved, sensed other reporters getting nervous. Where was she going? What did she know?
She turned back into the room, saw a ripple of fidgeting and watch-checking sweep through the press pack, but the sudden happiness she felt at being back on the job died when she saw Mark looking at her with his easy smile.