Simon was waiting in Starbucks across from the arrivals gate at Edinburgh airport when Connor arrived. He sat in a corner booth, a coffee in front of him, leaning back in his chair, at ease with the world. Connor had always envied that about Simon, the casual demeanour that spoke of a man comfortable in his own skin.
It was something Connor had yet to master.
He looked up when Connor was halfway towards the table, a broad grin splitting his face as he stood. He was taller than Connor, thinner too, the lack of muscle bulk something he always complained about in the gym. Yet Connor had seen Simon McCartney sprint down Castle Lane in the centre of Belfast in pursuit of a shoplifter at a speed that would have put Usain Bolt to shame. And he could fight. As well as weightlifting, Connor and Simon had sparred together from time to time, mostly to blow off steam, sometimes to establish the pecking order without getting seriously hurt. And those bouts had taught Connor one simple lesson: Simon was a dangerous mix of speed and intelligence in a fight.
‘Well, fuck me if it isn’t the jolly green giant,’ Simon said, grabbing Connor in an embrace and thumping him on the back.
‘Ho, ho, fucking ho,’ he said, feeling the knot of tension that had crawled into his shoulders when he saw that book begin to ease. His friend was here. Whatever was going on, they would figure it out and deal with it together.
Simon broke the hug, taking a half-step back. ‘You look well, big lad,’ he said. ‘This private-sector lark obviously suits you.’
‘It pays the bills,’ Connor said. ‘You weren’t waiting long, were you?’
Simon ran a hand through his hair. ‘Nah, not really. Gave me a chance to get a coffee and see the sights anyway.’ He nodded to his left, where a lithe blonde girl was sitting, long tanned legs showing she was just back from somewhere sunny.
Connor shook his head. ‘You never change,’ he said. ‘C’mon, let’s get you out of here.’
‘Grand,’ Simon said, dipping down beneath the table and pulling up a large kitbag. He dangled it in front of Connor. ‘Don’t worry, I made a wee stop before the flight – got a decent bottle in here for later.’
Connor gave him a quizzical look. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally learnt an appreciation of the finer things in life?’
‘Whisky? Nah, catch yerself on. Red wine, my friend. Got a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in here. You want to kill your tastebuds with paint-stripper, crack on. I’ll enjoy the good stuff.’
Connor chuckled. Same old Simon.
They walked in silence back to the car, Connor having parked in the multi-storey attached to the main terminal by a covered walkway. Simon pulled up short when he saw the car Connor was heading for, whistling between his teeth. ‘“Pays the bills”,’ he said, eyes roaming across the Audi.
Connor popped the boot, Simon stepping to the back of the car and putting the bag in carefully. Then they hopped in and Connor fired the engine, Simon nodding approval as the V8 burbled into life. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
Connor smiled. ‘It does the job.’
He got out of the airport, used the roundabout at the exit as a slingshot and powered up the ramp to Glasgow Road, Simon easing back in his seat.
Connor waited until they got onto the bypass and had settled into the outside lane before he spoke. He had been mulling over how to start this conversation ever since he’d left Stirling. There was no easy way to say it so direct was the only way to go.
‘You manage to find anything on the Librarian?’
Simon sighed. When he had met Connor, he had been relaxed, at ease, a civilian. But now they were talking business. And that meant he was on duty. The earlier humour in his voice was gone. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I checked the death report and it’s sound – got hit by a car on the Shankill, just at the pedestrian crossing at the leisure centre. Some no-mark kid with too much acceleration and not enough brains. No link to his dealing from the UDA that the investigating officers could find.’
Connor glanced down at the speedo, eased off slightly from the 90 m.p.h. he was doing. ‘Nothing else? No activity from known associates? No known leaks in the service that might have given me up to him? Nobody looking like they were wanting to settle scores on his behalf after his death?’
‘Nothing like that. Seems he mostly fell out of favour with the UDA after your little, ah, encounter with him. He lost face with the leadership after the way you put him down in Glencairn, and then the way he got, ah, mugged in town. And besides, Connor, if there was someone looking to settle scores for Hughes, don’t you think they’d come for me first?’
Connor nodded. They both knew it was true. After Connor had beaten the shit out of Hughes, they had known that, as officers who had last confronted him, they would be persons of interest, both to official investigations and those that were carried out in the backrooms of bars on the Shankill. So while Connor was tracking and confronting Hughes, Simon was making sure any video footage of him in town that night was conveniently lost. It didn’t take much, just a few calls to the right people, a few favours called in. The Troubles may have been officially over, the weapons ‘put beyond use’, but there was still an unwritten war footing in Belfast. And the first rule of that was loyalty. A police officer needed a favour from a fellow law-enforcement professional? No problem. Ranks were still closed, reports still lost, shortcuts still taken.
All in the name of justice, of course.
Following the initial clean-up, the alibi Simon provided wasn’t overly examined. They were at his place, having a beer and craic, then decided to head into town, around the Cathedral Quarter. The latter lie was easy to prove: Simon was the first person Connor had contacted from the Harp bar after his gran had called and pulled the pin on the night that ended his life in Belfast.
Simon seemed to read Connor’s thoughts. ‘You seen Karen at all?’ he asked.
Connor had known the question was coming, but still it stung like a hard jab to the kidneys. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I know she’s back here, teaching in Edinburgh. With the teacher shortage at the moment, it was easy for her. Seeing someone new, I think. But other than that . . .’
‘Sounds to me like you’ve been keeping tabs,’ Simon said, no judgement in his voice.
Connor sighed. It was true, he had been. He knew it was bordering on stalking, but he had to know she was okay. After what he had done in Belfast, he had shut down, folded himself in on the poisonous anger and pain he felt over what he had done to Hughes, then his mother’s cancer diagnosis. Karen had tried to reach him, even as the distance grew, but it was useless. The relationship broke down, the stress and tension making Connor retreat even further for fear he would lose his temper again and lash out at her physically. He could not, would not, let that happen, let himself become that man.
His grandfather.
She had stuck by him, attended his mother’s funeral with him, both of them knowing they were mourning more than a death that day. But still he checked. Facebook profile, employment records, electoral roll. All the usual stuff.
Day to day for him, really.
‘Look, Connor, whatever the fuck is going on here, we’ll figure it out. If someone is trying to leave you a message, we’ll find out who it is. And why. And then we’ll send our own message.’
‘Okay,’ Connor said, nudging the car up to 100 m.p.h., suddenly eager to get back to Stirling and find some answers.