Maxwell Higgins, Ferguson’s senior special adviser, was waiting when Connor arrived, pacing around one of the ponds set in the concrete at the front of the Scottish Parliament. He was taller than he appeared on TV, and bristled as Connor limped towards him, striding forward to cut the distance between them, as if he were impatient to get the conversation over with. Or, more likely, Connor thought, to make sure no one heard them speaking.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, Fraser?’ he spat, face pale, eyes glinting behind his glasses. ‘Calling me out of the blue, making wild accusations. This whole business with Ken is distasteful enough. The last thing we need . . .’
Connor smiled, heard Lachlan Jameson’s words again as he raised the iPad and unlocked it.
If he’s not an asset, he’s a liability . . . If he’s not cutting it, we cut him.
‘I’d be happy to discuss this in court, Mr Higgins. Perhaps when we do, you can explain what I have here.’ He tapped the video still he had taken, the picture on the wall in Billy Griffin’s flat. The image Jameson had broken in to steal. It was blurred by magnification, but it was still clear enough to drain the colour from Higgins’s face, make him flinch from the iPad as though he had been slapped.
It was another semi-military pose, a group of ragtag youths clustered around the Nazi-like 4A flag, flanked by two figures standing to attention. Helen Russell. And Maxwell Higgins.
‘Well, I just don’t, I can’t . . .’ Higgins said, taking a half-step back as he glanced around, desperately checking who was in the vicinity.
Connor smiled, warm and genuine. ‘So, about that date in court, when were you thinking?’
Higgins stared at him, hate and feral desperation stripping the mask from his face. ‘What do you want?’ he hissed. ‘I’ll buy that from you or . . .’
Connor locked the iPad and dropped it to his side, out of Higgins’s reach. ‘I’m sure you could too,’ he said. ‘After all, Mummy and Daddy have a few quid – I bet they’d be happy to shell out to help you.’
Higgins blinked rapidly, confusion diluting the hatred in his gaze. ‘What do you . . .?’
‘I did a little checking on my way here,’ Connor said, shifting his stance as his leg began to ache. ‘Quite the story back in the day, wasn’t it? You, the son of a minor Tory peer, breaking generations of family party loyalty to side with the cause of independence? A coup for the party, and it seems you made yourself useful, working in just about every position you could until you found Ferguson and became a senior special adviser. And he was very, very useful, wasn’t he?’
Higgins seemed to regain some measure of control. He slowed his breathing, smoothed his tie. But it was a façade: the quick, rat-like glances at everyone around him told Connor as much.
‘I don’t know what you mean. I worked for Ken for years and I—’
‘You used him,’ Connor said. ‘Must have been handy having the ear of someone that high up in the party, someone you could mould into a success, use to gain their trust. And all the while you were still having your little weekends with Helen Russell and the boys at 4AG. My friend Donna told me all about you back in 2014, how desperate you were to have the picture of Billy Griffin pulled from the papers. Didn’t make much sense at the time, but I get it now. You weren’t worried about how it would affect the cause, you were worried it would make Billy too much of a star, get him to talk about his pals. But he kept quiet, didn’t he? Until Matt Evans, of course.’
A dark flash in Higgins’s eyes at the mention of Evans’s name. It was all the confirmation Connor needed.
‘That bastard,’ Higgins whispered.
Connor nodded. ‘Yeah, that bastard. See, I read it wrong. It was you he emailed, not Ferguson, wasn’t it? Lets4kenny – that email account was set up on Kenny’s behalf, but it wasn’t used by him, was it? I bet if I looked on your computer I’d find the log-ins there. Evans knew what he had, and he was blackmailing you with it. And, as it was you who spoke to Lachlan Jameson back in 2014, you who “made the arrangements” to hire him for Ferguson, you had just the solution to your problem, didn’t you?’
Defiance straightened Higgins’s spine, forced him to lock eyes with Connor who, despite the pain, took a half-step forward into the gaze.
‘You have nothing,’ Higgins said, more to himself than to Connor, a sneer twisting his features. ‘A blurry picture, a claim I had access to my boss’s private email and records showing I arranged security for Ferguson a couple of years ago. Nothing.’
Connor shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it’s enough to start with, enough to get the questions going, isn’t it? And how’s it going to look when the man behind the minister is exposed as a regular at ultra-Unionist camps?’
Higgins’s resolve seemed to crumple, fast calculations running across his eyes. He ran his tongue over his lips, swallowed once, throat clicking. ‘What do you want?’ he breathed, his voice taking on a pleading that hurt Connor almost as much as his leg. ‘I wasn’t joking before – I can get you . . .’
Connor felt the anger rise in him then, cold and black. When he spoke, he heard his father’s voice. ‘What I want is my friend to recover from the broken jaw you caused. What I want is Donna Blake not to be haunted by the image of what you had done to Matt Evans. What I want is for my leg to stop aching every time I fucking move. But what I’ll take is watching the police and the press rip you apart. Don’t worry, though. You won’t have to wait too long. I’ve already sent them all the records of your contact with Jameson, the emails to Kenny’s account and, of course, this picture.’
He lifted the iPad, waved it in Higgins’s face. ‘They should be here very, very soon.’
Higgins whipped his head around, like an animal suddenly realizing it was in a cage. Connor turned and walked away, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to walk smoothly, not let Higgins see how badly he was hurt. As he walked, he heard the first wail of a siren in the distance and wondered if it was headed this way. Looked back over his shoulder to see Higgins rushing for the Parliament.
Not that there was a safe hiding place for him there – or anywhere else for that matter. If the police didn’t get him, Connor would. For Billy Griffin, Matt Evans, Helen Russell – and Simon.
He got back to the car park where he had left the Audi, paused in front of it, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. Took deep breaths as he swallowed the pain shooting through his leg. The siren sounded closer now, more urgent. He hoped that, wherever Higgins was, he was hearing it too.
Connor circled the car slowly, bending at the wheel arches, intent on his task. Then, satisfied, he got in and fired the engine.
Even in peace time, you always checked under the car before you drove.