The huddle arranged for Ferguson after the press conference was, in truth, little more than a scrum. The ministerial car had been brought round to the front of the building and conveniently parked in one of the bays opposite the main door. The only place for Ferguson to stop was just in front of the Police Scotland sign that hung over the front of the station. It made a strong image for the cameras, and Donna was forced to admire the political staging. No wonder they had won three elections.
Guthrie emerged from the station first, flanked by Doyle and Danny. They were followed by Ferguson, then the woman and the man Donna had seen at the press conference. Again, there was a momentary twinge of recognition, something about the way he moved, the small, birdlike dart of the head to whisper in Ferguson’s ear. But then the cameras started popping and flashing, the questions were lobbed at them, and Donna was swept along with the story.
The woman stepped forward, placing herself between the press and Ferguson, who surveyed them with a smile that was as expansive as his waistline. The press conference was over, and he had moved from stern overseer to a more comfortable role: playing justice secretary, defender of police and public, friend to the press.
The woman held up her hand, calling for calm. ‘As you’ll appreciate, Mr Ferguson is on a tight schedule, but he has a few minutes to take your questions. So, please, wait until you’re called, identify yourself and state your question.’ She surveyed the crowd, the assembled reporters straining like children in a classroom to be picked first. Her eyes roved across the pack, looking for . . . ‘Ah, yes, you, sir.’
‘Thank you. I’m Mark Sneddon, Chronicle. Mr Ferguson, there have been claims that the investigations into these murders have been hampered by lack of resources in Police Scotland. Do you believe this is the case and, if so, what steps are you taking to address this, not just here but across Scotland?’
Ferguson’s smile faded to the expression of a man disappointed to be asked a question by someone who clearly didn’t understand what was going on. ‘As you know, the Scottish government has made resourcing of the police across the country a priority. And while operational matters are for the officers in charge to comment on, I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to ensure that . . .’
Donna tuned him out – if she wanted that line she could pick it up from any of the dozen press releases it had already appeared in. The question was a no-brainer: it sounded tough but meant nothing, gave the minister the chance to reinforce the government line and keep away from the story.
She studied the woman smiling and nodding along with Ferguson as he spoke. She had found Mark Sneddon, a print reporter without a cameraman, in a sea of TV cameras and big-name news presenters? Nah, the question had been a plant: the woman had worked it out with Mark beforehand, known she would go to him first.
Question was, who was using whom?
Another surge forward as Ferguson stopped speaking. The woman’s eyes roved across the press pack again, landing on Donna for a second, then moving on. Donna forced herself to think. Two more questions, max. She needed to stay low-key, keep away from Matt’s murder but get a shot in, keep her name linked to the story.
The thought came to her suddenly. Connor Fraser’s words: You play by the rules, but you’re not afraid to push them a bit.
She smiled, the idea taking root. Something that kept them away from Matt Evans’s murder but moved the story on. Something it was unlikely the rest of the press knew. Unless, of course, they had, like Connor Fraser, paid a visit to Christopher Russell before the press conference.
‘Just one more question,’ the woman called, her eyes skimming across the crowd. Donna raised her mic, didn’t wait to be picked, just started talking, her voice rising to cut across the throng. Directed the question straight at the main event, Ferguson, felt an electric thrill as the woman who had been controlling proceedings until that point glared at her.
‘Mr Ferguson, Donna Blake, Sky News. I understand that Councillor Helen Russell, who was found at the Stirling Court Hotel, was at a cross-party reception at the Scottish Parliament sponsored by the Tories, the night before she was discovered. Were you at the event and, if so, did you see Mrs Russell?’
Ferguson smiled, coughed, played for time, glanced around, looking for an answer from the woman or the maddeningly familiar man who was with him. Found none, started talking. He quickly regained his composure, falling back on well-practised sound bites about ‘attending a wide range of parliamentary events and, yes, I seem to remember being there, but I can’t recall seeing Mrs Russell’.
‘So you knew her prior to this, sir?’ Donna asked, again ignoring those around her. ‘You don’t recall seeing her, so you would have recognized her if you had?’
Ferguson’s jowls quivered, his small, pudgy hands knitting in front of his crotch as though he were trying to protect himself from a kick.
Too late, Donna thought, too late.
‘Why, yes. I, ah, knew Mrs Russell. She was a vocal representative of her constituents in Stirling North, and I believe she was part of the delegation that made representation to me regarding policing in the area.’
The press erupted, questions lobbed like grenades at Ferguson. Donna looked over her shoulder, making sure Gary, the cameraman, had got it all. He gave her a brief thumbs-up, his eye not leaving the viewfinder of his camera. Kid must be psychic.
Donna looked back to Ferguson, and the woman who was trying to regain control of the event, saying they would have to wrap up as the minister had to leave. But it was the man who drew Donna’s attention. He looked at her coolly, a still point amid the chaos that raged around him. Recognition pulled at Donna’s mind, an echo of something almost remembered, like a song where the tune was clear but the lyrics were lost.
Something . . .
And then it came to her. She knew where she had seen him before. Years ago. Before Andrew. Before Stirling. When the fiction that she and Mark had some kind of future was being taken as fact. When Glasgow voted yes and Scotland voted no. When . . .
You have good contacts, she heard Connor Fraser whisper.
She cursed herself. Blind. And stupid. She hadn’t asked Mark if he knew the name of the first victim, been so fucking grateful at what he’d given her that she hadn’t thought to query it.
But she knew now. Billy Griffin. Had to be. The presence of the man in front of her guaranteed it.
A man who, four years ago, had tried to strong-arm the press into banning the infamous image of Billy Griffin torching flags. Flags he cared about very deeply.
Maxwell Higgins was a party man, through and through.