‘So, are you going to tell me what you found, and what the hell this all means?’
They were in Connor’s living room, the folder from the radio station on the coffee table. Simon had made himself busy with the drinks, pouring himself another large glass of the wine he had bought. Connor had asked for a large whisky. He had no intention of drinking it, but he wanted the heavy-based short glass Simon would put it in.
Just in case.
He took a breath, collected his thoughts. ‘Okay,’ he said, reaching for the folder and opening it, splaying the papers inside across the table like a deck of cards. ‘I think Sneddon was right. Someone doesn’t want the link between Ferguson and Russell exposed. But not for the reason he thinks. See, I found this.’
He picked up a photograph from the table, studied it. It made sense, really. It was one of the first questions Ford had asked him: had he had any dealings with the Red Hand Defenders? Why? Because the Defenders had known links to Alba Gheal Ann An Aonadh, the ultra-Unionist group that was known to have run joint training camps with the Defenders.
Training camps just like the one in the picture Connor handed Simon. It was grainy, slightly out of focus, clearly taken on the spur of the moment, then uploaded to a propaganda-filled website in which any face that wasn’t covered with the traditional balaclava or scarf pulled up to the nose had been digitally blurred. But this shot was raw, without any of the faces doctored. It showed a small, tight group of people, mostly young, shaven-headed, brandishing a variety of weapons ranging from pistols to baseball bats. They were standing in a scruffy version of a regimental pose, two flags in the centre – the Red Hand of Ulster and a white flag with the black compass points of the Alba Gheal Ann An Aonadh logo branded swastika-like in the middle. And grinning out of the image were two faces Connor knew.
Billy Griffin and Helen Russell.
‘Fuck,’ Simon whispered. ‘So the first two victims knew each other. And Billy was linked to Evans. But how? And why did someone go so medieval on them?’
Connor stopped for a second, looking at the picture. That was bothering him too.
He brushed the thought aside. Focused on what he did know. ‘Think about it. Sneddon said it himself. With all the shit going on with Brexit and talk of a second referendum at any moment, can you imagine what would happen if it came out that a leading government minister – the minister in charge of law and order – was revealed to be a marriage wrecker who was shagging a leading member of a proscribed Unionist terror group? The papers would have a fucking field day, and the pro-independence movement would have a total shit-storm on their hands.’
‘I don’t know,’ Simon said. ‘I can see it’s embarrassing, but worth killing for? Especially like this? Nah, there’s got to be more to it. Something we’re not seeing.’
Connor riffled through the papers, mostly background on Russell and Ferguson, written in what he assumed was Evans’s hand. And there was another question – the clothes: why did Evans and Griffin have each other’s clothes in their homes?
He looked back at the picture. Clothes. That was what had given Connor the password to Evans’s laptop. In the picture, Billy was wearing a Rangers FC top, for a club with a traditionally Unionist background. The club had a nickname, Teddy Bears, and, with the flag-draped toy on Evans’s desk, it had been an obvious connection to make.
‘Gimme the laptop,’ Connor said, reaching across the folder for the flash drive he had found. Simon leant down, picked up the laptop from the floor and passed it to him. Connor powered it up and waited while it booted. After a few moments it revealed a standard desktop littered with an assortment of Word and Excel files that looked like broadcast scripts and timetables. He flicked into the web browser and its history, found nothing more than a collection of news websites, Amazon and searches on Russell and Ferguson stored there. But again he felt the pull of recognition, something about files he had seen earlier . . .
He slotted the flash drive in, waited for the icon to appear on the desktop, double-clicked on it and scanned the directory. They were .mov files, uploaded from a smartphone. Connor clicked on one and watched as the drab interior of Billy Griffin’s flat filled the screen. He was sitting opposite the wall where the missing picture had hung. He smiled nervously at the phone, laughed, waved. Then a voice came from off-camera, a voice Connor recognized from Valley FM as Matt Evans’s.
‘Okay, Billy, no rush. Tell me again about the training camp.’
Billy fidgeted in his seat, rubbed his hands on his legs, glanced nervously at the camera. ‘I’m no’ sure I should . . .’
A blur as a figure passed in front of the camera, walking diagonally across the view, then dropping to his knees in front of Billy. Matt Evans ran his hand up Billy’s legs in a slow, comforting caress. It made sense of the shared wardrobes, the teddy bear on his desk at work. ‘Look, Billy, I’m not trying to force you into anything here,’ he said, his voice radio-sonorous and soothing. ‘If you don’t want to do this, then I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. But if we do this, handle it right, we can get everything we wanted, everything we’ve spoken about. Away from here. Clean. Together.’
Billy nodded, the gesture so full of blind hope that the whisky soured in Connor’s stomach. ‘All right, Matt,’ he whispered.
‘Good,’ Evans said, returning Billy’s smile. He stood up, placed a hand on his shoulder, and leant in, a reassuring peck on the lips. Then he turned and walked behind the camera again.
‘When you’re ready,’ he said, the voice colder now.
Billy knotted his hands in his lap, studied them for where to start. ‘Aye, well, it was like I said before, like. I heard about it from the boys at the game, got into it that way. Signed up when I could, wasnae easy to get in, they’re suspicious bastards, but with the way things were then, I wasnae surprised. Anyway, I went to a couple of meetings, then got asked away on one of these “outdoor retreats”, you know, meant to be all camping and team building, but it’s just a cover to get you trained up with the kit and the fightin’.’
He droned on about the details of the camp, weapons, crap food, too much booze, lots of propaganda about the ‘indy scum who want to rip our country apart’. Connor skimmed through the files, noting that the location of filming occasionally changed, swapped for a brighter, more homely flat with other pictures on the wall. Evans’s home, surely. It was mostly the same content, Billy bragging about his growing links with both 4AG and the Red Hand, how they had given him an important assignment: he was to make a real statement after the independence referendum. ‘Aye,’ he said, cheeks reddening with pride. ‘They wanted me to make a real scene, show those Yes bastards who they were dealing with. Told me to get a flag, make sure everyone saw me light the fucker up.’
Again, Evans’s voice from off-camera: ‘Who told you, Billy?’
‘That Russell bint,’ Billy said, staring into the camera, his eyes growing dark and sly, a rat-like intelligence seeming to sharpen his features. ‘But it wasnae just her. See, she told me we had friends in high places. And one of her pals, who everyone thought was a Yesser, was really a friend of ours, and would see me right.’
Connor paused the clip, took a swig of whisky before he had even thought about it. There it was. Billy Griffin claiming Helen Russell knew that a key Nationalist was actually a Unionist sympathizer. Ferguson? Given their links, probably. At any rate, it was explosive pillow talk, and information worth killing for.
On an impulse, Connor clicked back into the web history, ran through it until he saw what he was looking for, clicked on it and held his breath hoping, hoping . . .
Yes. One of the previously visited sites was for a gmail account. But Evans had been sloppy, closing the window but not logging out of the account, meaning it opened automatically. A lot of it was crap, internet shopping, Nigerian millionaires and promises to ‘extend his manhood’. Connor skimmed a page, then clicked on the sent items. Again, nothing of interest. But on the left, in the folders, there was one marked ‘Handy’. Connor clicked on it, hit the jackpot.
It was a back-up of the recordings Evans had taken of Billy and sent to himself, no doubt as insurance. But there was also a message, simply entitled ‘Proposal’. It had been sent a week ago to Lets4Kennynatsnper@gmail.com. Not difficult to decipher.
Connor clicked on it and read:
Sir,
I tried to call you earlier on but was rudely fobbed off. You may know, I presented Nightline on EBA and have recently moved to host a show in Stirling. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, a charming young man who I met during my time in Edinburgh and who is now safely residing in my care. He told me quite an illuminating story about you and your links to a Unionist group that is best not mentioned in polite company. I must say, I was shocked to hear you would associate with such people, let alone agree to help them.
As you will appreciate, this is a story of significant public interest, and I am very keen to get your input. Depending on what you say, I may be persuaded that there is a greater story to pursue, but that will take sum talking on your behalf. However, if I do not hear from you within twenty-four hours, I will make this story public.
Connor sat back, Simon craning over him to read the file. So that was it. Blackmail.
What was it MacKenzie had said? Billy was drug-dealing in Edinburgh? No doubt he’d run into Evans as a client and the two had got talking. Something had happened between them, taking the relationship from merely user and dealer, though from the way he had handled Billy on the tape, Connor knew Evans was both. At some point, Billy had told Evans his story. And all Evans had seen was a payday – ‘that will take sum talking’. So he had approached Ferguson, who had moved to shut him up and sever all links to him. Permanently.
Connor closed his eyes, saw the obese, sweating form of Ferguson standing in front of the cameras. He wasn’t the killer – there was no way he was capable of it. The physical exertion of moving a body, let alone decapitating it, would give the fat fuck a heart attack, so who . . .
Connor froze, the glass halfway to his lips. He lunged forward, barging Simon out of the way, ignoring his curses as wine sloshed onto his T-shirt. Suddenly, he understood what was bothering him. What he had seen on Sneddon’s screen but not recognized.
Until now.
He fished his phone out, opened his own email, found the message he had made Sneddon send him, the one that had all his research attached. Clicked on the records of the Electoral Commission from the time of the town-hall tour and scanned down until he found what he was looking for.
The world stopped. Simon called him from the end of a long corridor. Far away. Unimportant. All he could hear was the hammering of his heart in his ears, his pulse making his vision brighten and expand in time with his heartbeat.
He tore his eyes from the screen, looked at Simon, the questions and doubts tumbling through his mind as he felt his grip tighten on the glass.
‘Jesus, Connor, you okay? You look like you’ve shit a brick, big lad . . .’
Connor ignored him, flicked through his contacts. Found the number he needed. The number he had made a point of finding the first day he had met Malcolm Ford.
‘Superintendent Doyle? This is Connor Fraser. I’m sorry for contacting you like this. But I have a question, sir. You told DCI Ford that you served with my boss in the army. Could you tell me where that was, please? It’s vital to the case and my employer.’
The answer Connor had feared slithered down the line, stabbing into his ear and ripping through his mind like a blade. He mumbled a thank-you, then ended the call, the phone skittering across the table as he tossed it with a numb hand.
‘Connor, what the fuck . . .?’
He looked up at Simon, at the man he had thought was his friend. The man he had seen wield a wicked-looking knife earlier in the evening. The man who might have been lying to him all along.
He stood, his legs heavy, adrenalin beginning to spark and crackle through his veins. It was like a short-sighted man putting on glasses for the first time, the world jumping from soft focus to brutal, sharp-edged detail as he finally saw everything. He took in Simon’s relaxed posture, saw his shoulders and jaw tighten with dawning unease, his pupils dilating and his breath deepening as he readied himself for what was coming next.
‘Connor,’ he said, rising now, holding an arm out. ‘Big lad, what’s going on? What was that all about just now?’
‘The rat,’ Connor said, feeling a smile draw his lips tight. ‘Did you know they found a rat stuffed into Billy Griffin’s mouth? I thought it was a message, that maybe he was traitor, a rat, who had been silenced. Is that what you are, Simon? A rat? A traitor?’
Simon’s mouth fell open as though he had been slapped. ‘Connor, what the fuck are you talking about? I thought we were past this. I’m sorry I lied to you, but God’s truth, Lachlan called me over here to keep an eye on you when it all kicked off here. What the fuck are you . . .’
‘The rat,’ Connor said again, as though Simon hadn’t spoken. He was focusing on the angle of Simon’s lower jaw, just below the ear. It was where he would hit him first if he had to. He prayed he was wrong. Prayed he wouldn’t need to.
‘It was a message, just not the one everyone thought it was. See, it was a calling card. Which leaves me with only one question, Simon.’
‘What? Connor, Jesus, what . . .’
‘Are you really my friend? Or are you just another rat working for him?’