Connor had called Donna before Ford, was driving to her place while he spoke with the detective. He hadn’t bothered to listen to the voicemail he saw she had left him.
It turned out to be a mistake.
‘You took your fucking time getting back to me,’ she’d hissed. ‘What part of the word urgent don’t you understand?’
‘Sorry, I’ve been busy,’ Connor said, rolling his eyes at Simon, who was giving him a quizzical look. ‘Listen, Ms Blake, I need to speak to you about Matt Evans, ask you a few questions. I was—’
She cut him off with a barked laugh. ‘Funny, that’s what I need to talk to you about. One of the things, anyway. Can you come here, to my place?’
Connor paused, the statement surprising him. Earlier in the day, she had kept a can of pepper spray trained on him as he gave her a lift across town. Now she was offering him her home address, no questions asked. What had changed?
‘As long as you don’t mind me bringing someone with me,’ he said, trying to buy himself a moment to think.
‘Fine.’ She had given him the address, which the satnav showed to be on the road out to Cambusbarron.
‘No problem,’ he said, slipping the Audi into gear.
‘This isn’t exactly how I saw tonight panning out,’ Simon said, eyes on the road.
And how did you plan on it going? Connor had wondered, with only the slightest pang of guilt.
Ten minutes later, after he’d spoken to Ford, Connor pulled up outside Donna Blake’s place, a three-storey block of flats so new Connor could have sworn the smell of fresh paint still hung in the air. She hadn’t been there long.
He peered over the steering wheel to the top floor, saw a soft light on in what he figured was the living room. Pulled out his phone and texted her that they had arrived. It had been a slightly odd request, which rang a vague alarm bell in the back of Connor’s mind. Why didn’t she want him buzzing the intercom? It wasn’t to stop him waking a partner – that would happen the moment he stepped into the flat. Did she have a dog that would bark and disturb the neighbours? Or was she using the text to prepare someone else for their arrival?
Only one way to find out. And, besides, it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.
The response was almost immediate: Come on up, I’ve buzzed the door.
‘Well, then,’ he said to Simon, ‘let’s not keep the lady waiting.’
The door was open, as promised, and they made their way up the stairs, Connor letting Simon go first, just in case. When they reached the top-floor landing, Donna was waiting for them, silhouetted in the crack of an open door.
Connor saw her tense when she spotted Simon and stepped forward with what he hoped was a disarming smile. ‘Ms Blake, this is Simon McCartney, an old, ah, friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Simon, this is Donna Blake of Sky News and Valley FM.’
He saw Donna blush at that, pleasure sparking in her eyes.
‘Good to meet ye,’ Simon said. ‘Sorry about the circumstances, but yer man here is the world’s biggest shite magnet.’
Donna smiled, an expression that seemed unfamiliar to her, and again Connor wondered what drove her. She was determined, defiant, fearless. And now, here she was, ready to invite two men she barely knew into her home.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘But, please, keep quiet. My . . .’ she looked up, her eyes filled with challenge as she found Connor’s gaze and held it ‘. . . my son is asleep and I don’t want to wake him.’
Things fell into place with an almost audible click. It explained a lot.
She led them down a short corridor into a small, neat living room. Connor noticed she had arranged a bottle of wine and three glasses on the table. Saw from the smear on one of the glasses and the slight blackening at the corners of her mouth that she had already had some, then wiped the glass clean in a hurry. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ she asked, gesturing them to sit.
Simon eased himself into the couch. ‘That would be grand,’ he said.
‘Not for me,’ Connor said. ‘Driving. But thank you.’
She poured a glass for Simon, then splashed a small amount of wine into her own. She almost succeeded in hiding the tremor in her hand, but Connor spotted it in the pitter-patter of the wine as the bottle danced gently in her grip.
‘So, you wanted to ask me about Matt?’ she said, sitting back.
‘Yes, in a moment, but can I ask why you were so desperate to see me, Ms Blake? And what it is that’s got you so rattled this evening.’
She looked up at him, something he couldn’t place darting across her eyes. Then she looked into the wine glass. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost atonal. It reminded Connor of the tone Simon used with suspects. No emotion. All business.
‘I got a call earlier, telling me that, ah . . .’ she looked deeper into the wine glass ‘. . . a colleague has gone missing. He was at the press conference earlier, hasn’t been seen since.’
‘And why would that trouble you?’ Connor said.
She looked at him as though he were a child who had just asked why water was wet and the sky was blue. ‘With everything that’s happened over the last few days, you don’t think I should be worried when someone goes missing? Shit, where have you been?’ She took a sip from the glass. ‘Sorry, it’s just the whole Matt thing. Mark, ah, my colleague, was at the police press conference earlier. I confronted him about feeding soft questions to the minister, to make sure the story stayed away from Ferguson’s links to Helen Russell.’
‘And what did Mark have to say for himself?’ Simon asked, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘Not a lot,’ Donna said. ‘Just a sob story about trying to get a job, the usual crap.’
‘That can’t be the only reason you wanted to see me, Ms Blake,’ Connor said. ‘You could have told me that over the phone. There’s something else, isn’t there?’
She chewed her lip, jaw setting as she made a decision. ‘I know who the first victim was,’ she said. ‘And I told Mark. I worked a story back in Glasgow about him – you might know the name. Billy Griffin? The kid who was photographed burning a Yes flag in George Square after the referendum in 2014.’
Connor stiffened, exchanged a look with Simon.
‘What?’ Donna asked, eyes darting between the two men as the air in the room thickened.
‘Billy Griffin,’ Connor said. ‘We’ve come across that name ourselves. Did Matt Evans ever mention him?’
Confusion dug furrows into Donna’s brow. ‘No. Why would he? What would Matt have to do with . . .’
Connor held up his hand. ‘I’ll get to that. But tell me more about your friend. You’re worried because he’s disappeared, so worried that you wanted to see me, here, tonight. Why? For reassurance? Protection?’
Donna’s cheeks reddened, her face hardening with defiance. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You said it yourself, Mr Fraser, you’re in the protection game. I saw what happened to Matt Evans first-hand, then I told Mark about Billy Griffin and suddenly he’s off the radar. So, yeah, I’m alone here with my son, and there’s a nut job out there who thinks nothing of hacking people’s heads off and leaving them lying around like trophies. I panicked, okay?’
Simon spoke before Connor could reply, his voice soft and soothing, honed from years of talking to victims of crime and their families. ‘Ms Blake, no one is blaming you for wanting to protect yourself and your son, especially after what you’ve seen. But Connor is right. We believe there’s a link between Billy Griffin and Matt Evans. You worked with Matt, so if there’s anything you can tell us, anything at all . . .’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t really know him,’ she said. ‘We worked together, but he kept himself to himself, was a bit of a dick, to be honest. And he never mentioned anyone he knew, let alone Billy Griffin. Why would he know him anyway?’
Connor was about to speak when his phone buzzed. He flashed an apologetic smile at her, then turned away and answered it. ‘DCI Ford. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’
‘You were right,’ Ford said. ‘Inventory shows two different sizes of clothes in Evans’s flat. Officers also found two different brands of deodorant and two toothbrushes in the bathroom.’
‘Anything that definitively links Evans to Griffin?’
‘Not explicitly. We can use the toothbrush, see if we get a DNA match, and print the flat. But there’s no picture, nothing that shows them together.’
Connor bared his teeth, worried at his thumbnail as he thought. Damn. He had hoped . . . The idea came to him suddenly, the thought of the ID flashing across his mind. ‘And nothing in the inventory from his office either?’
Ford muttered something Connor thought questioned his parentage. ‘Not been searched yet,’ he said. ‘Whole office was sealed as a crime scene, but the interior’s not been looked at as the body was outside and we’ve only so many bodies on hand.’
Connor winced at the poor choice of words, decided not to needle Ford with it. ‘Thank you, Detective. That’s useful to know.’
‘Your turn, Fraser,’ Ford said. ‘You found anything from that lead you were chasing?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Connor admitted. ‘But I promise I’ll call you the moment I have anything.’
‘Good. You can come to the station, tell me all about it on the record.’
‘Look forward to it,’ Connor said, cutting the line.
‘Ford?’ Simon asked, as he turned back to them.
‘Yeah,’ Connor replied. ‘Suggestive evidence at Evans’s place linking him to Griffin, but nothing definitive yet. Which leaves only one option.’
Simon nodded, eyes sliding to Donna.
‘What?’ Donna asked, sensing the unspoken conversation between the two men.
Connor hunkered down beside her, making sure he was at eye level. ‘Ms Blake, Donna. I need a favour. I promise I’ll protect you and your son, but you have to do something for me in return.’
‘And what’s that?’ she asked, tensing in her chair, voice frosted with suspicion.
‘Can I borrow the keys to your office?’