The headline seemed to scream from the screen, a white-hot outrage that seared his eyes and made his nerves quiver and sing, like the over-tightened string of a guitar.
‘Justice secretary linked to Stirling murder victim,’ the caption read, below images of the press conference, reporters surging forward as Blake asked her question, the screen flaring bright as every flash popped, trying to catch the moment in all its failed glory.
He had known using Sneddon was a risk when he was approached with the idea. Anyone who met him could practically smell the desperation bleeding from his pores, the need to please, to ingratiate, to make himself indispensable. But he had allowed himself to be convinced, trusting those advising him that they knew what they were talking about.
And Sneddon had proved how wrong he was when he opened his mouth to parrot the lines he had been given like a good little puppet. He shuddered with embarrassment at the memory. A fucking baseball bat would have been more subtle.
And then, just to complete the cluster-fuck, Blake had pushed her way into the press conference with the one inference he had worked so hard to keep everyone from drawing.
So you knew her prior to this, sir? You don’t recall seeing her, so you would have recognized her if you had?
He fought the almost irresistible urge to swipe the computer from his desk as the anger boiled up: a wave of acid at the back of his throat. He clamped his hands under the desk and pressed up, as though trying to lift it, feeling his muscles ache with the effort. All he had to do was stand up, extend his arms and flip the table. Grab his chair and throw it through the glass wall that faced into the rest of the office, sweep up a shard of broken glass as he stepped through and then . . .
He closed his eyes, the after-image of that fucking headline dancing across the darkness. Forced himself to breathe, relax.
Think.
He opened his eyes, looked again at the insult. His fury slowly abated, replaced by a cold hatred that he seized on and nurtured as he fed it the facts.
So they knew there was a link. So what? Politicians had meetings with each other all the time: it was the nature of the business. A Nationalist minister meeting a Unionist councillor was perfectly normal. Routine, even. It could be explained.
Evans, on the other hand, was a complication. He admitted to a dark elation when he learnt what the caller had done, hoped that the little prick had been made to suffer before the end, just as he had asked for Griffin to suffer. After all, betrayal deserved to be repaid with pain. But now, with this fucking bitch Blake setting the press pack salivating, it felt like an indulgence, an unnecessary risk that only increased the chance of exposure.
And yet . . .
If everyone was looking at Russell, no one was looking at Evans. At the moment, the official theory was that, as a local media personality with form on a bigger stage, he had attracted the attention of the killer. Which was true. What no one knew, what he could not afford anyone to know, was why he had attracted the killer’s attention.
The sound of his intercom startled him from his thoughts. He reached for it, unnerved to see his hand was not steady. ‘Yes, Margaret, what is it?’
‘Ah, Ms Mitchell is calling for you, says you’ll know what it’s about.’
He shot a poisonous glance at the door. Stupid, senile old bitch. He should have got rid of her when her eyes started to fail. She was more trouble than she was worth. But, no. She had been with him from the beginning. And her dedication deserved – no, demanded – his loyalty.
He closed his eyes, concentrated on keeping his voice even. No point in delaying the inevitable. ‘Put her through, will you?’
The clunk of a call being connected, Mitchell’s voice on the line. He listened, eyes still closed, as she unravelled his world around him. He thought of hanging up, just slamming the phone down and walking away from it all. But that would be the coward’s way out. The way of Evans or Griffin. No. He had come too far, worked too hard, to fail now.
He turned his attention back to the call, listened to the forced calm of Mitchell’s voice. And, as he did, he came to a decision. It was one he could live with. After all, what was one less journalist in the world?