No Man's Land

Book 1: Connor Fraser

by Neil Broadfoot

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

'A true rising star of crime fiction' Ian Rankin

'Wonderfully grisly and grim, and a cracking pace' James Oswald

'A frantic, pacy read with a compelling hero' Steve Cavanagh

War is coming to No-Man's Land, and Connor Fraser will be ready.

A mutilated body is found dumped at Cowane's Hospital in the heart of historic Stirling. For DCI Malcolm Ford it's like nothing he's ever seen before, the savagery of the crime makes him want to catch the murderer before he strikes again. For reporter Donna Blake it's a shot at the big time, a chance to get her career back on track and prove all the doubters wrong. But for close protection specialist Connor Fraser it's merely a grisly distraction from the day job.

But then another bloodied and broken corpse is found, this time in the shadow of the Wallace Monument - and with it, a message. One Connor has received before, during his time as a police officer in Belfast.

With Ford facing mounting political and public pressure to make an arrest and quell fears the murders are somehow connected to heightened post-Brexit tensions, Connor is drawn into a race against time to stop another murder. But to do so, he must question old loyalties, confront his past and unravel a mystery that some would sacrifice anything - and anyone - to protect.

From Dundee International Book Prize and Bloody Scotland book of the year nominee Neil Broadfoot comes the first gripping thriller in the white-knuckle Connor Fraser crime series.

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Praise for Neil Broadfoot:

'Tense, fast-moving and bloody. Broadfoot's best yet' Mason Cross

'Broadfoot is here, and he's ready to sit at the table with some of the finest crime writers Scottish fiction has to offer' Russel D. McLean

'Tension that'll hold you breathless' Helen Fields

'Crisp dialogue, characters you believe and a prose style that brings you back for more . . . a fine addition to a growing roster of noir titles with a tartan tinge' Douglas Skelton

'This is Broadfoot's best to date, a thriller that delivers the thrills: energetic, breathlessly paceyand keeping you guessing till the end' Craig Russell

'Neil Broadfoot hits the ground running and doesn't stop. With the very beating heart of Scotland at its core, your heart too will race as you reach the jaw dropping conclusion of this brilliant thriller. First class!' Denil Meyrick

'A deliciously twisty thriller that never lets up the pace. Thrills, spills, chills and kills' Donna Moore

'An explosive, gripping page-turner with dark and utterly twisted murders. Simply brilliant!' Danielle Ramsay

'An atmospheric, twisty and explosive start to a new series by one of the masters of Scottish fiction. Get your wee mitts on it' Angela Clarke

'No Man's Land is a stunning, fast-paced, multi-layered thriller. Disturbing political unrest and psychological horror written with great confidence by Neil Broadfoot, who has one hand on Ian Rankin's crown as the king of Scottish crime' Michael Wood

'[A] gritty and fast-moving tale of shifting loyalties set against the backdrop of Scottish and Irish politics' Nick Quantrill

'Definitely a must read for all lovers of Tartan Noir: or anyone else who simply wants to enjoy a compelling tale' Undiscovered Scotland

Release date: September 6, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Connor Fraser collapsed against the church wall, rain-slicked granite driving icy needles into his back and shoulders. He focused on the sudden chill, tried to use it to clear his thoughts, calm the white noise of pain and confusion and rage.

Blood pumped over the hand he had clamped across the wound to his leg, hot and slick between his fingers. He took a deep breath, ignored the flash of pain in his chest, exhaled a cloud of steam into the night air.

The voice drifted from the shadows, as warm and cloying as the blood pouring from his leg. ‘You okay, Connor? Watch your step. Last thing we want is you slipping and breaking your neck. Been enough death here recently.’

Connor looked into the darkness opposite, trying not to think of what had been left there only days ago. Knew now it had been a message for him. A message crafted in blood and pain, designed to make his life a horror story.

His attacker slid from the shadows, moving closer. Connor saw muscles tense, the final attack close. The knife rose slowly, flaring orange as it caught the glow from a streetlight overhead.

Connor braced himself against the church wall, tried to draw strength from the ancient stone. ‘Come on, then,’ he hissed, dragging his gaze from the ghost in front of him. ‘I’ve not got all night, and this is getting fucking boring.’

Another smile, almost genuine this time. ‘Mr Take Charge, huh, Connor? I always liked that about you.’ A glance down at the knife. ‘Well, if you insist.’

Connor pushed off the wall as hard as he could as his attacker lunged, using inertia to make up for the weakness in his leg. He surged forward, the fury and pain finally erupting from him in a roar that filled his ears, drowning out even the hammering of his heart.

They collided in a tangle of limbs and fell to the cobbles, writhing. Connor’s leg was engulfed in agony as he jerked the wrong way, the sudden pain forcing another scream from him. He felt small, hard fingers scrabble across his face and twisted away, eyes searching desperately for the knife. He grabbed for it, felt the crazed strength of his attacker behind the blade, inching it closer, closer, to his face.

He took another breath, tasted blood at the back of his throat, and gripped the arms that were quivering with the effort of driving the knife towards his face. He thought about letting go for an instant, the knife digging into the soft flesh under his chin, the blade slicing sideways and down to tear open his windpipe, blood and gristle splattering onto the cobbles. He could let it end with him. Let his blood be the last.

Couldn’t he?

Run!

The word was a shriek in his mind, an imperative he could not ignore. He charged forward, shrugging off the hands he felt on his shoulders. Ignored the sudden panicked shouts of his name as he crashed through heavy double doors at the back of the High Court and onto the street.

A clatter of feet behind him, a voice shouting: ‘Stephen! Stop! Shit! Tango Alpha to team leader, he’s gone. Repeat, asset is on foot, heading . . .’

He pushed through the throng in front of him, ignoring the indignant shouts, the burning, dazzling flash of cameras and the clamour of questions.

Run!

Stephen lurched across the street, new shoes slithering across the cobbles, aiming for the gate and the News Steps he knew lay beyond. Took them three at a time, each impact on the age-smoothed stone juddering through his body and driving the breath from him.

He looked up, realized he was running straight for the looming stone wall at the bottom of the stairs, where the path twisted to the left, then on down the hill. He skidded through the turn, colliding with a heap of tattered blankets tucked into the corner of the landing, felt something soft yield against his flailing feet.

‘Ah, ya fuck!’ a voice grunted, the blankets rearing up like some kind of threadbare monster. A pale, thin face glared at him, eyes wide with shock, outrage and pain.

Stephen kicked himself free, dived for the next flight of stairs, reached the bottom and picked up speed on the slope that led onto Market Street. Waverley station was only minutes away. He could duck in, pick a train, any train, and just go. Leave it all behind and . . .

A figure appeared at the mouth of the alleyway, all shoulders and back, blocking his path. Stephen’s roar was part shock, part fury. No station for him. No escape. Not now. He tried to slow down, but momentum conspired with the slope to confuse his co-ordination and balance. His feet tangled beneath him, the world tilting as he toppled forward, concrete rushing up to meet him.

A dark blur of motion in front of him, then hands on his chest, stopping him smashing face first into the ground. His stomach gave a cold, oily flip as he was spun around and upright, then slammed into the wall of the alley, breath driven from him in a bark.

‘Easy, Stephen, easy,’ the man said, grip tightening on his lapels as he spoke.

‘Connor, man! Fuck!’ Stephen spat, squirming in the man’s grip. ‘Where the fuck did you come from?’

Connor Fraser gave him a you-know-better smile. ‘Come on, Stephen, really? Obvious which way you’d go. Most of the press packing out the front of the court, only way for you to go was the back door, especially after I showed you the way when I took you up those stairs this morning. It was fifty–fifty you’d make a run for it, but I thought I’d cover the bases, just in case.’

Stephen fought for breath, felt his eyes prickle with heat. Waited a beat, fighting to keep his voice even. ‘Ah, come on, man. Just let me go, okay? My dad’ll blame Robbie, not you. He’s the one I got away from. Just let me go. Tell Dad you couldnae catch me. Please?’

Connor shook his head slowly, eyebrows rising in something like apology as he eased his grip, allowing Stephen to move away from the wall. ‘Sorry, I can’t. You know that. Besides, where would you go? And what would you do next? No, better to go home. Be with your family. You’ve got a dad who only wants to look after you. Let him.’

Stephen glanced over Connor’s shoulder towards the station. He felt a brief tug of regret, and sighed. Where would he go? It wasn’t like he could just fade into the background – he’d been plastered across the headlines for a week now: Star’s Son Key Witness in Murder Trial. With the trial ongoing, the press had refrained from picking apart his life, digging into the corners he didn’t want them looking into. But now that he’d done his part, given evidence that almost guaranteed a conviction, they would be on him. Scrutinizing his life. Wanting him to comment. His dad’s agent had already warned him that the media interest would be intense. Wherever he went, this would follow him. Connor was right: better to face it here.

He took a steadying breath, nodded. Connor studied him for a second longer, then took a step back, letting Stephen move onto the path. But he didn’t let him go: one hand was still clamped around his arm. Just in case.

Stephen let himself be led the short distance to the end of the alleyway, felt no surprise when he saw a black BMW parked at the side of the road, idling. The driver’s window buzzed down, Iain Robbins nodding to Connor as they approached, eyes darting over Stephen.

Connor guided Stephen to the back of the car and opened the door for him to get in.

‘Look, Connor, I . . .’

Connor held up a hand. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I know what it’s like. You did a brave thing today, Stephen. Not everyone would have the balls to stand up and tell the truth the way you did. But you did it. Now you have to deal with the fallout.’

A flash of panic made Stephen’s legs twitch, the thought of running darting through his mind. But then he stopped. Calmed himself. It was done. He couldn’t change that now. Best to pick up the pieces.

He ducked into the car, Connor swinging the door shut behind him.

‘Come on, then, Iain,’ he said. ‘Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.’

* * *

Connor watched the car pull away, heading down Market Street. Waited until it got to the roundabout and turned left, heading for Stockbridge and Stephen’s home. He wondered what John Benson would say to his son when he got there, pushed the thought aside as he clicked open his earpiece channel. ‘Team leader to Tango Alpha, asset secured. Lid full. Going off comms.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, just removed the earpiece and slipped it into his pocket. Then he pulled out his mobile and called Robbie Lindsay’s number.

‘Connor, man, fuck. Sorry, he got away from me. Fast wee fuck, he—’

‘I don’t want to hear excuses, Robbie.’ Connor glanced up the News Steps Stephen had just sprinted down. Kid was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck. ‘You were primary on Stephen. There was no way you should have let him get enough distance between you and him to make a break for it, especially so close to an unsecured exit.’

Robbie mumbled an apology, took a breath. ‘You going to tell Jameson?’

‘Do I have a choice? You let an asset slip out of the pocket in an exposed area. We were only lucky that he followed the path I’d already shown him and had limited options for escape. Imagine what would have happened if he’d managed to get past me and was hit by a car or something.’

Silence fell on the line. Robbie didn’t need to imagine. John Benson was one of the biggest names in Edinburgh, a former fan favourite at Hibs who’d moved into TV punditry and presenting when his footballing career had petered out. Stephen had enjoyed living in the shadow of his father’s success and played the role of spoilt celebrity brat, the usual blend of parties, paparazzi and sex keeping the media interested.

But it had all gone wrong for Stephen one night three months ago when, sharing a noseful of party favours in the toilets of one of Edinburgh’s more exclusive clubs, a hanger-on called Roddy Davis had got into a row with another clubber and, in a rage, produced a knife and slit the man’s throat. Stephen had made a full statement to the police, and was called to be the star witness in the trial, which had generated a full-blown media circus. John Benson had called in Sentinel Securities, the same close-security firm that had looked after him when the partying got a little too hard and the crowds a little too rowdy.

‘Look, I’ll think about it,’ Connor said, focusing again on Robbie. ‘But for fuck’s sake, catch yourself on, okay? This isn’t a game.’

Robbie sighed down the line. ‘Aye. Okay, Connor, sorry.’

‘Right, get on home, then, and get your report to me by Monday.’

‘Aye, thanks, man.’

Connor killed the call, headed for the News Steps. He had seen Stephen collide with someone up there and wanted to check that whoever it had been wasn’t hurt. He was halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew who it would be. ‘Lachlan, how are you?’

‘Connor,’ Lachlan Jameson boomed, voice as clipped and precise as the moustache he insisted on wearing. ‘What news this fine day?’

Connor rolled his eyes. Did he really think ordinary people still talked like that? ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Just wrapped up with Stephen Benson at the High Court. He’s on his way home now. Iain will stand perimeter with Jodie, keep the press at bay.’

‘And what about young Lindsay’s performance?’ Lachlan asked, a hint of impatience creeping down the phone line.

Connor winced. Shit. The old man must have been watching the case on the TV. ‘Let’s just say he needs a little work,’ he replied. ‘Couple more months of training and Robbie should work out nicely.’

‘Is that an offer?’

Connor mouthed a silent curse. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘no way. You asked me to run the close protection and security around Stephen and his family while he gave evidence. Job done. Iain and the team can handle the rest. Besides, I’ve got a long weekend coming up, remember?’

Jameson grumbled his displeasure down the phone. As a former soldier, there was something about ‘time off’ that he just couldn’t understand.

Maybe, Connor thought, if he knew what I’ve got to do, he’d go a little easier.

‘Fine, Connor, fine. Just remember, though, if Robbie’s not an asset, he’s a liability. If he’s not cutting it, we cut him. This is a business, after all.’

Connor bit down on the sigh he felt in his chest. Typical Jameson: officer class, saw the grunts as cannon fodder, disposable. Not if he could help it. ‘You want me to come into the office and write up my report now?’

‘No, no, it’s fine. Just head home, type it up and email it to me by close of play. Besides, you’ll want to get back to where the action is anyway.’

‘Oh?’ Connor said.

‘Seems there’s been a murder in Stirling, not far from where you stay. Not a bad break for us, keeps the trial further down the news schedule. There isn’t a lot of detail at this stage, but sounds fairly grim. Maybe you should come into work after all – might be quieter than home tonight.’

Despite himself, Connor laughed. ‘Not bloody likely,’ he said. ‘And, besides, murder investigations aren’t my thing any more. Let some other poor sod deal with it.’

‘Better them than us,’ Jameson agreed. ‘Enjoy your time off, Connor.’

Before Connor could reply, the line went dead. Jameson always wanted the last word.

He flipped open the news app on his phone and found the story. It didn’t add much to what Jameson had told him already. Body found up near the castle, police saying the death was being treated as suspicious, with ‘definite lines of enquiry being followed’. Translation: it’s a murder, and we don’t have a fucking clue yet.

The byline of the reporter who had written the story contained her Twitter handle: @donnablake1news. Instinctively, Connor flicked over to his Twitter app, scrolled through her timeline and clicked follow. After all, it never hurt to stay informed.

From beyond the police cordon, DCI Malcolm Ford heard the soft purr of tyres on cobbles as a car made its way up St John Street towards Stirling Castle. He locked onto the sound, like a shield against the soft, incessant squealing behind him. It was like a grotesque ear worm, a song he kept hearing in his mind. Insidious, maddening. Irresistible.

Look at me, it whispered. Just turn and look. Instead Ford gazed up into the clear August sky, closing his eyes against the sudden memory of what lay behind him, trying to draw heat from the day to banish the bone-deep chill that forced him to clench his teeth to stop them chattering.

Look at me, the squeal sang behind him, louder this time as the wind picked up. Go on. Just one quick look.

Ford opened his eyes and, making a half-turn, forced himself to focus instead on the scene in front of him. He was on a small lane that ran between the Holy Rude Church and the old bowling green that lay behind the imposing frontage of Cowane’s Hospital, which dated from the seventeenth century and backed onto the town walls. At this time of year, the place should have been bustling with tourists, eagerly snapping pictures as they took in the whitewashed stone and grey slate of the hospital and wandered around the gardens that surrounded the bowling green.

Today the area was sealed off – crime-scene tape draped across the gates that led onto the lane, two officers posted there to keep curious passersby away and a growing number of reporters and camera crews in check. Tourists had been replaced by SOCOs, the carefree wandering giving way to an agonizingly slow fingertip search of the area. Crime-scene photographers, using massive lenses and harsh flashes, were capturing every grim detail. In the centre of the green, a large white tent shimmered in the breeze, hastily erected to protect as much of the immediate scene as possible.

A similar tent was being erected behind Ford to preserve the primary crime scene and contain the sheer horror of what was there. But he knew better. Containment was impossible now. They could shield it from sight, but it was too late. The damage was done. He would see that image for the rest of his life, revisit it in countless dreams, dwell on it in quiet moments driving home or sitting up during the nights when sleep would not come. It was branded into his memory. Part of him. And, somehow, he had to try to make sense of it. And the twisted motivation that led to it being there.

He shuddered again, blinking rapidly as his eyes moistened. He coughed once and dug out his notepad, glaring at the pages, trying to fill his mind with the facts, quell madness with the mundane.

The discovery had been made a little after six that morning by a normally spry and vital pensioner, who was now under heavy sedation at Forth Valley Hospital. Ford hadn’t yet listened to the 999 call Donald Stewart had made but, from the edited transcript, he knew it was little more than a stream-of-consciousness rant of horrified disbelief punctuated by snippets of detail.

Stewart had been out for his morning walk with his dog, Minty. As usual, they had made their way up a long, twisting path called the Back Walk, which led from the Albert Halls at the bottom of the town, hugging the old town wall as it snaked around the cliffs on the way to the graveyard and the castle. Making a loop, they would walk back down St John Street and head for home in Abercromby Place, a typical central Stirling street of neat hedges, spotless pavements and Victorian townhouses hewn from granite and sandstone. Stewart was obviously not short of money, Ford thought. A point worth remembering.

But that morning Stewart had never made it home. Walking past the Holy Rude, the dog had slipped his collar, squeezed under the gate and charged into the lane, yapping and barking. Noting the gate was unlocked, Stewart had followed – and stepped into Hell.

The report of what he had found, the thing which called to Ford now with its soft squeal, descended into a litany of swearing and sobs for God’s mercy. Ford nodded silent approval. He’d seen too much in his job to believe in God, but if ever he wished there was one, it was today.

He set his jaw, took a deep, hitching breath. Thought of Mary, who would be at the university now, where she worked in the IT department. Mary, who would hold him in bed when he moaned in his sleep, listen to him as he spoke, tolerate his silences when he couldn’t find the words. Not that he would have to do much explaining on this case: it would be on every TV station and front page soon enough.

Bracing himself, he turned, letting out a small sigh of relief when he saw the SOCOs had finished erecting the tent. He nodded to one he recognized. Even swathed in his white jumpsuit, hood and mask, the huge outline and pendulous gut of Jim Dexter was unmistakable.

He heard the squealing again as he approached the tent. Soft, maddening. Almost, he thought, excited now. Yes, Malcolm, that’s it. Come and see me. I’ve been waiting for you.

He stepped inside, earning a cold glare from another forensics officer standing in the middle of the space. Ford held up a hand, indicating he wouldn’t get any closer. He wasn’t sure he could, even if he wanted to.

The tent had been erected on a small section of perfectly manicured lawn just to the side of the ornate arch that made up the main entrance to the church. The wind picked up and there was another squeal. Some primal instinct to run caressed the back of Ford’s neck as he looked at the source of the sound, the object that had called to him, begging him to look. Just. One. More. Time.

In the centre of the tent a slender steel spike had been driven into the lawn, swaying gently with the wind. Impaled on it was a head, the spike entering just below the left side of the jaw and exiting just above the right temple. It put the head at an obscenely jaunty angle, giving it an almost quizzical look. It was little more than a twisted knot of waxy, ash-grey flesh. Lank dark hair was plastered to the forehead, while fluid from the ruined eye sockets soaked the cheeks and mingled with blood so dark it almost looked like oil. The rest of the body was in the second tent on the bowling green, and Ford dimly wondered if the injuries he had seen on it had been inflicted before the head was removed. Given the expression on what remained of the face, he thought so.

The face was a rictus scream of agony, the mouth forced open impossibly wide. Despite his revulsion, Ford was seized by the sudden, almost irresistible urge to step forward, remove the object that had been crammed into the mouth to release the scream it must have stifled. Instead, he looked away, stomach roiling, acid burning the back of his throat as he stared at the thick pink rat’s tail hanging from the mouth and trailing over the lower jaw, like a perverse line of drool.

The landscape seemed to decompress as Connor drove west, the urban sprawl of Edinburgh and its suburbs giving way to the open fields and greenery of Linlithgow and West Lothian as he headed for Bannockburn. The radio was full of breathless reports about the murder, each station finding ever more inventive ways to say the same thing over and over again. He finally settled on Valley FM, more out of habit than preference. It was a typical local radio station – all nineties music and terrible jingles for small firms in the town – but he found the traffic reports useful. And it was on the station’s website that he’d read the first take on the story.

Donna Blake sounded older than he had imagined from her Twitter profile. The picture there – open smile, perfect make-up and just the right approachable twinkle in her striking blue eyes – gave an impression of youthful enthusiasm and likeability. A reporter who wanted to hear your story. But the voice drifting from the radio was deeper, more tired than he would have thought.

She went through what Connor had already read, telling listeners that the victim had been found in the grounds of Cowane’s Hospital. Investigations were ongoing, and a post-mortem examination was due to be held. The report then cut to what Connor thought must have been a press conference, the harried voice of a DCI Ford struggling to be heard over camera flashes and the background murmurs of a room full of excited reporters.

‘A definitive cause of death has yet to be established, and the victim has yet to be identified. Extra officers will be deployed in and around Stirling town centre, and we would appeal to anyone who was in the vicinity of John Street, Cowane’s Hospital or the area around the Old Town Cemetery and castle at the top of the town between ten p.m. last night and six a.m. this morning to come forward.’

The report cut back to Donna Blake as she gave some background on the area in which the body had been found. Connor tuned it out, his attention shifting to the two massive horse heads that loomed up over the horizon, the metal sculptures glinting in the late-afternoon sun. At thirty metres tall, the Kelpies were an arresting sight and, to Connor, vaguely menacing. They had been built as part of a project to extend the Forth and Clyde Canal, a monument to Scotland’s long use of horses in industry. But there was something about them that seemed designed to intimidate, one staring straight ahead, the other frozen with its head flung back, as though it was rearing to throw off its rider.

He shook his head, bearing down on the accelerator and enjoying the surge of power from the Audi’s V8. The car was veering dangerously close to flashy for his line of work but it was, apart from the flat, his only indulgence. And, besides, his mother would have approved. He was almost sure of it.

He came off the M9 onto a twisting A-road that he enjoyed just a little too much, reluctantly slowing as he came into Bannockburn. As he passed a car dealership and a petrol station, it struck him again how normal the town seemed, the banal markers of modern life giving no hint of its extraordinary place in Scotland’s history. In 1314, the armies of Scotland and England had met in fields close by and, over two long, brutal days which cost more than fifteen thousand lives, Scotland had prevailed. Connor had studied the battle at school, its sheer scale and savagery capturing his young imagination.

He ignored the satnav, taking the turns that led to his destination from memory. As ever, a creeping dread chilled him as he drove, his thoughts descending into a confused jumble. He indicated and turned off the road, the static of crunching gravel filling his ears as he drove up the long, sweeping driveway that led to the main house. Pulling into a space under a small grove of neat trees, he killed the engine, then climbed out of the car.

It was a clear August afternoon, the wind calm, the sun warm yet not overbearing. Despite this, Connor felt clammy, overheated, as though he had just finished an intense session at the gym. He loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt as he glanced up at the building in front of him. It was a Victorian-style sandstone mansion, the bottom floor dominated by two huge picture windows that flanked the open front door like sentries. To the left of the main house, connected by a glass corridor, sat a smaller, more recent building, like a modern block of flats, trying its best to blend in with its grander neighbour.

What would he find when he stepped inside? Would she be waiting for him, or would it be only the sickness that increasingly wore her face? Would he be greeted with a smile or suspicion? And how would he tell her what he was going to do this weekend?

Steeling himself, Connor headed for the care home’s main entrance, hoping that someone he recognized was at the reception desk. At least then he would be guaranteed one friendly welcome today.

She felt like a teenager again, sneaking something illicit while her parents were distracted, filled with the fear they would come back and catch her in the act. But this time it wasn’t a boyfriend or a cigarette or a stolen drink with a friend. No, this time it was her laptop.

Donna hit the power button, wincing as the sound of the Mac chiming into life filled the flat. What the hell was she thinking? Why did she still let them get to her like this? She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old who had ruined her life and it wasn’t the 1960s. She was thirty-four, had studied for two degrees, forged a career in a male-dominated industry in which women were still expected to handle the puff pieces and soft news. If she’d been married they’d have been delighted by a grandchild, probably be pushing her for a ‘little brother or sister’ for Andrew.

But there was the problem. She wasn’t married, a fact of which her parents – her mother in particular – reminded her every time an opportunity arose. And, unfortunately, as Donna needed them to help with childcare when she was at work, the opportunity arose far too often for comfort.

Leaving the laptop to boot up, she headed for her bedroom, and the crib in which Andrew had finally decided to take a nap. She peered in cautiously, focused on his chest, watching it rise and fall gently, the dummy in his mouth jerking occasionally as he sucked. Again, she felt the amazement well up in her that this tiny life had come from her.

As she leant closer, watching his small chest rise and fall, she brushed a strand of hair away from her face and absently tucked it behind her ear. She had changed out of her work clothes and slipped on her favourite pair of maternity jeans – she was almost back to her pre-baby figure but the elasticated waist was comfortable – with a hoody and let her hair hang loose. She knew her mum. . .