Connor pulled into a parking space across the road from Allan’s Primary School, a short walk down the hill from Cowane’s Hospital and the Old Town Cemetery. He killed the engine and looked across at Simon, who was staring back at him.
The confrontation had been inevitable, as Simon had continued to insist that Lachlan Jameson had summoned him only to keep a surreptitious eye on Connor when the bodies had started to pile up in Stirling, and Connor had been looking for a favour. Connor had continued to dismiss that explanation as bullshit, both men’s voices rising with their anger.
‘Tell me the fucking truth, Simon,’ Connor had hissed, ‘or I swear to fuck I’ll make you eat that fucking glass.’
‘Away tae fuck,’ Simon replied, his voice a harsh rasp. ‘I am telling you the truth. I came because Lachlan asked me to keep an eye on you. Thought you needed back-up. I swear. So get it done, choke me out, ’cause my answer’s not going to change.’
Connor gave a grunt of frustration and forced his shoulders to ease. Grabbed the laptop and spun it round. ‘So if that’s true, what the fuck does this mean?’
Simon’s eyes darted between Connor and the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
It was the email Sneddon had sent, detailing the expenses and accounts of those involved in the independence roadshow debates. When he was checking the Electoral Commission’s spending records of the parties for accommodation and looking for crossovers, he had stumbled over something else. A seemingly innocuous line in the accounts that referred to payments made for ‘travel and transportation costs’ for Ferguson as he travelled around the country. Deprived of his ministerial car and entourage, he’d been forced to rely on private means to get around.
Private means that were provided by Sentinel Securities.
On one level, it made sense to Connor. With the debate becoming increasingly polarized and toxic, those involved had been looking for a little extra security and reassurance when travelling to meet the great unwashed. And Connor knew it was happening again now: with Brexit on everyone’s lips, there had been a surge in political clients looking for close protection experts to act as drivers and bodyguards when attending events.
But there was something else, something that echoed in Connor’s mind the moment he had seen the company’s name in the records. A memory of his call with Jameson after the Benson job in Edinburgh.
‘Seems there’s been a murder in Stirling, not far from where you stay. Not a lot of detail at this stage, but sounds fairly grim. Body badly mutilated. Maybe you should come in to work after all. Might be quieter than home tonight.’
Body badly mutilated. How had Lachlan known? He had called before Ford’s first press conference, when all that had been available was the scant information Connor had seen in Donna Blake’s initial story: it’s a murder, and we don’t have a fucking clue.
It was possible that Jameson had called his pal Doyle for an off-the-record update, but why? Concern for Connor? Unlikely and, besides, Doyle had told him that he hadn’t asked for details of the case.
Then there was Jameson’s military service with Doyle. They had served together in the first Gulf War, in the 7th Armoured Brigade, a tank division also known by a more colourful nickname: the Desert Rats.
Rats. Just like the one that had been stuffed into Billy Griffin’s mouth.
Not a message. A calling card.
Simon had blinked up at Connor, nothing but confusion in his face. ‘Connor, honestly, man, you’ve got to believe me. He called me, said you might be in a bit of bother, asked me to come and keep a quiet eye on you, watch your back. Said he didn’t want to tell you as it would be like an insult – that you couldn’t look after yourself. Look, you’ve got to believe me, man.’
Connor wanted to believe Simon, but it didn’t make sense. The picture he had formed in his mind told him that Lachlan Jameson had a previous relationship with Ferguson, who had reached out to the ‘security and protection expert’ asking for help with his little blackmail problem. Killing wasn’t an issue: before forming Sentinel, Jameson had taken on private contracts; a little digging had told Connor they had attracted high fees and bloodshed. Wet work, they called it. And the intelligence was that Lachlan Jameson loved to get wet.
But if that was right, if Jameson was the killer, why had he called Simon in to watch Connor’s back? Why put him in touch with Doyle and, subsequently, Ford? And why, if he was trying to play this quietly, was he taunting Connor with a message from his past? A message he would have known demanded a response?
It was a question that had lingered unspoken between them on the drive back into town.
‘You got any idea what the fuck is going on here, Connor?’ Simon asked, as he stared up the hill. The night had made good on its threat, and rain tapped on the roof of the car, like the drumming of impatient fingers.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Connor said. ‘But why don’t we go and find out?’