The Point of No Return

Book 3: Connor Fraser

by Neil Broadfoot

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

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

'A true rising star of crime fiction' Ian Rankin

'Tension that'll hold you breathless' Helen Fields

How far would you go to find the truth?

After more than a decade of being in prison for the brutal murder two Stirling University students, Colin Sanderson has been released after his conviction was found to be unsafe.

Returning home to a small village not far from Stirling, Sanderson refuses police protection, even in the face of a death threat. But the PR firm that has scooped him up to sell his story does know of a protection expert in Stirling. They want Connor Fraser.

Connor reluctantly takes the assignment, partly as a favour to DCI Malcolm Ford, who is none too keen to have Sanderson on the loose, particularly as he was involved in the original investigation that saw him imprisoned.

When a body is found, mutilated in the same way as Sanderson's victims were, all eyes fall on the released man. But how can he be the killer when Connor's own security detail gives him an alibi?

As Connor races to uncover the truth, he is forced to confront not only Sanderson's past but his own, and a secret that could change his life forever.

-----

Praise for Neil Broadfoot:

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

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

'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

'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 3, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 304

Sample

Free is a four-letter word.

The thought strikes me suddenly, and I’m forced to swallow down the unexpected laughter that tickles the back of my throat like champagne bubbles. Laughter at this moment would draw attention, and what I need right now is dignified composure. So I strangle it, force my face to take on a neutral expression. Nod at the appropriate times, cock my head when points are made. To the casual observer, I am sombre, attentive, following proceedings intently.

The truth is far simpler.

I am fucking elated.

Free. I am finally free. After fourteen years ‒ fourteen years of confinement, restraint and denying myself ‒ I am finally free. Free again to hunt, to roam.

To kill.

The revelation sends dull sparks fizzing across my eyes, the colours of the day suddenly becoming hard, dazzling things that seem to leap out at me, as though the contrast on the world has suddenly been dialled all the way up. I feel as though I’m having an out-of-body experience, drifting untethered, disconnected as bureaucracy grinds its way through seconds and minutes before finally, finally, it’s over and I’m released.

I stagger out into the day, blinking like a newborn as cameras flash and questions are shouted. I put my arm out, wrap it around the person next to me, pull him close. I suppose it could be seen as a gesture of comfort, support.

Honestly? I’m clinging on for dear life.

Finally the noise and chaos is behind us and the world takes on its former soft focus. We walk silently, falling into step with each other, no words needing to be spoken. After all, we’ve had more than a decade to consider this day. What more needs to be said now?

I am free. Finally. Free to choose where I want to go and what I want to do. And what I want to do is very, very simple. It is the same thing I’ve wanted to do for the last fourteen years. A tingle of anticipation flashes from my stomach to my crotch at the thought.

Free. Free to do what I want.

And where I want to do it is obvious. After all, they say home is where the heart is.

And my heart has always been in Stirling.

The sound of the mirror exploding filled the room, the noise as jagged and sharp as the shards of glass that hit the floor in an almost musical tinkle of static.

So much, Connor Fraser thought, for a quiet assignment.

He was in Stockbridge, one of the more gentrified areas of Edinburgh’s New Town, all granite buildings, leafy streets, artisan wine stores, exclusive restaurants and, of course, boutique salons where hair could be cut, nails could be buffed and appearances could be maintained. And the salon Connor stood in at that moment was one of the most exclusive. Linklaters was renowned for having the most discerning clients ‒ footballers, politicians and even a few wellkent faces from TV were known to be shorn and groomed by Stuart Linklater or his wife, Audrey. They had appeared in style magazines, hosted a TV makeover show, embarrassingly called The Missing Linklaters, were regulars on the society pages and at all the best parties across central Scotland.

All of which went part of the way to explaining why Stuart Linklater was now lunging towards Connor with a pair of scissors in his hand, perfectly bleached teeth almost glowing as he pulled his perma-tanned features into a sneer. ‘Move Connor, now!’ he hissed, a faint Highland burr softening some of the menace in his voice with a singsong quality Connor almost found funny. ‘I swear to fuck, I’m going to gut that cheating hoor!’

Connor staggered forward a half-step as Audrey slammed into his back, trying to get around him.

‘Come on, then, you fuck!’ she hissed as Connor stood his ground and pushed back. ‘You think I’m scared of you?’ A sneer of laughter, as sharp and cold as what was left of the shattered mirror. ‘You’re about as threatening as my last shite, Stuart, and it had more backbone. I only brought Connor here because Grant recommended him but, believe me, I don’t need him to deal with a limp-dicked little prick like you!’

The moment the name had been uttered, Connor knew what was going to happen. Grant. As in Grant Lucas. One of the Linklaters’ regular clients, a perfectly coiffed and manicured presenter on STV’s late-night current-affairs programme. And it was current affairs that had led to here, when Audrey had announced her love for Grant and her intention to leave Stuart, taking with her half of their business and the empire they had built up over the last twenty-five years.

All of this flashed across Connor’s mind in the split second it took Stuart to react. He jerked once, as though the name had somehow electrified him, then lunged forward again, bringing up the scissors, his face a mask of well-moisturised hatred, his intention to cut straight through Connor to get to Audrey glinting in his eyes.

Connor took a half-step back, Audrey giving a startled cry as he sent her sprawling, then stepped forward, ducking low and into the arc of the scissors. He punched upwards, into Stuart’s exposed armpit, sending him off balance. With a startled cry of pain, Stuart collapsed to the side, crashing into a barber’s chair and tumbling to the floor. Connor swept his foot, trailing Stuart’s path, a quick stamp to the wrist of the hand holding the scissors, which skidded away across the exposed wood floor.

‘Stay down, Mr Linklater,’ Connor said, as he took in the room. Audrey was picking herself up theatrically from the floor, eyes darting between the scissors and her soon-to-be-ex-husband, who was cradling the wrist Connor had just stood on and folding in on himself like a beaten puppy.

‘Don’t, Audrey,’ Connor said slowly, making sure his eyes conveyed the message. ‘Just collect what you came for and let’s get out of here, OK? Stuart’s not going to give us any more trouble, are you, Stuart?’

‘You almost broke my fucking hand!’ Stuart yelped, an edge of tears in his voice now, all bravado gone.

Connor considered this. ‘You came at me with scissors, Mr Linklater,’ he said, feeling anger rippling across the back of his neck in slow, cramping waves as he spoke. ‘If I’d wanted to, I could have hit you hard enough to dislocate your shoulder instead of just throwing you off balance. And I could have easily smashed your wrist. Under the circumstances, I’ve been a model of restraint. So keep that in mind, will you?’

He turned as Audrey bustled towards him, a large, ugly glass sculpture that looked vaguely like a kid’s Play-Doh rendering of a pair of scissors cradled in her arms. Connor sighed internally. Of course, he thought. I should have known. So much for the simple assignment.

She swept past him, heels crunching on the glass from the mirror shattered by the phone Stuart had hurled into it when they arrived. ‘Let’s go,’ she hissed, her face twisting momentarily as she passed the prone figure of Stuart. ‘You,’ she whispered, ‘will be hearing from my fucking lawyers.’

Connor followed her out, got in front of her to block her access to the Land Rover parked outside the salon.

She looked up at him, rearranging her face into a grateful smile. ‘Thank you, Connor. As you can see, Stuart has always had a temper. I should have left him years ago.’ Her voice was a low drawl, little more than a whisper. Christ, did she really think he was that stupid? Maybe she did, after his performance just now.

‘Mrs Linklater, Audrey,’ Connor said, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Please, don’t try to play me. Yes, Stuart was out of line just now, and yes, I maybe went a little hard on him. But don’t pretend it wasn’t exactly what you wanted. We’re both better than that.’

‘Why, I don’t, I mean I …’ she blustered, suspicion puncturing the mask of civility she wore.

Connor locked his gaze with hers, suddenly tired. He had better things to do than this. ‘You asked me to escort you here to retrieve some essential items. I agreed because Mr Lucas is our client, and he is keen you receive the best care, especially since Mr Linklater can be somewhat, ah, unpredictable. But what you came here for was a worthless Salon of the Year award. You knew Stuart would be here. Wanted to bait him with me around to look after you. What was it you said to him? “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers”? All well and good, Mrs Linklater, but trust me on this. If your lawyers contact me, I’ll deny anything happened here today. I don’t like being played, Mrs Linklater. I’m here to protect you, not become a pawn in your tug-ofwar with your husband.’

Audrey’s mouth moved silently for a moment, as though she was speaking but had been put on mute. Emotions scudded across her face like fast-moving clouds. Shock. Outrage. Spite. Connor could see the calculations playing across her mind: what could she do? How could she avenge this outrage? He found he didn’t care.

Stepped aside, opened the door of the Range Rover for her.

‘Have a nice day,’ he said. ‘I won’t include any of this in my report to Mr Lucas, but if you feel he would benefit from a personal conversation with me, just let me know.’

She glared at him for a moment longer, then slipped into the car. The award was tossed into the passenger seat like the afterthought it was, and then she busied herself with her belt, muscles fluttering in the side of her jaw as she clamped down on her anger.

Connor swung the door shut gently, took a step back as the car roared into life and squealed away from the kerb. He glanced back up at the salon, considered going back in to check on Stuart Linklater. The decision was taken out of his hands by the buzzing of his mobile in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw Robbie Lindsay’s name on the caller ID.

‘Robbie, what’s up? I’m just heading back in now,’ he said.

‘Glad to hear it, boss. We’ve had a call ‒ you’re getting a visitor.’

‘Oh?’ Connor said. Curious. He had cleared his diary at Sentinel Securities for the afternoon to deal with the Linklaters, and Robbie knew better than to drop appointments into an afternoon Connor had blocked off. ‘Who’s looking for me?’

A moment’s pause on the line, a slight clearing of the throat. Robbie was shaping up to be a good operative, but there was still this nervousness when he was delivering news he didn’t think Connor was going to like. Something to work on.

‘It’s DCI Ford, sir,’ Robbie replied. ‘Says he needs to see you to discuss an urgent matter.’

‘Ford?’ Connor felt a ripple of unease in his guts. He had worked with Malcolm Ford on two cases now, both of which had seen people die and Connor put in harm’s way. He respected the man and, as a former police officer himself, knew how difficult the job could be. But Ford’s patch was Stirling and Central Scotland. Why would he be venturing into Edinburgh to request a meeting in person?

‘How long have I got?’ Connor asked, heading for his car, which was parked a block away.

‘He just called ten minutes ago, boss. Says he’ll be here in an hour.’

Connor glanced at his watch. Calculated. The Sentinel offices were on the outskirts of the city, in an industrial estate not far from the airport. Even in Edinburgh’s treacle-like traffic, he’d make it back in plenty of time.

‘OK,’ Connor said. ‘I’m on my way. I take it Ford didn’t give any clue about what all this was about?’

‘No, sir, afraid not. But I took the liberty of doing a little digging, and I think I may have an idea. I can send a package to you now if you like?’

Connor smiled. Yes, Robbie was shaping up to be a very good operative. A former call-handler for Police Scotland, he had left the job when the pressures of sending officers from Inverness to an armed robbery in Paisley became too much for him. Connor’s predecessor, Lachlan Jameson, had found Robbie a couple of months later: a shy, nervous man with a talent for research, planning and logistics. An asset that could be used, a talent that could be exploited.

And Jameson had been all about the exploitation.

‘OK, send it over. I’ll see you shortly. Nice work, Robbie,’ Connor said, then killed the call.

His phone beeped with an email as he approached the car. Connor opened it, found links to news stories there and a single line from Robbie: Think it could be something to do with this boss. Kind of hope I’m wrong. R.

Connor clicked on the link. Felt the world slow and cool around him as he read the contents. He knew the story, of course ‒ everybody in Scotland his age did. But that didn’t lessen the impact, or the revulsion he felt.

And in that moment he found himself agreeing with Robbie. He hoped he was wrong. Knew in his gut that he wasn’t, and that he was about to step into a nightmare.

The call came in just as Connor pulled up in front of the Sentinel offices. He grimaced as he read the name on the dashboard display, struck by the irony that the contact was as predictable as it was unprecedented. He stared at the red-brick façade of the office in front of him for a moment, considering.

‘Fuck it,’ he whispered, thumbing the answer key on the steering wheel. ‘Dad, you OK? What’s up?’

A moment of silence, then Jack Fraser’s voice filled the car, the prickly undercurrent of static emphasising the sharpness in his tone. ‘No, I’m not OK, Connor. I’m just back from visiting your grandmother. What’s all this crap about you upsetting her with some old school reports? You know her condition. The last thing she needs is you trying to get her to remember things from years ago.’

Connor bared his teeth at the dashboard, bit back the surge of anger he felt caress his back. After his mother had died, it was Connor who had arranged for Ida Fraser to be transferred to a residential home in Bannockburn. It was Connor who had spoken to the doctors and specialists, made sure everything could be done to ensure the flame of Ida Fraser’s identity wasn’t completely snuffed out by the encroaching tide of confusion and dementia slowly overwhelming her mind. And it was Connor who had arranged the sale of her home to fund her care, Connor who was now living with his gran’s life carefully boxed away in his flat. So to have his father call him now to berate him after what had been an all-too-infrequent visit to see Ida …

Hold on. Good point. Why the sudden concerned-son routine?

‘Dad,’ Connor said, keeping his tone even, businesslike, ‘I didn’t mean to upset her. You should know well enough the specialists encourage dementia patients to try to remember things as long as it doesn’t disturb them. I found that old report card when I was going through Gran’s stuff from the house. Wanted to ask her about it, that was all …’

(Because there’s no way I could ask you.)

‘…Didn’t realise it would upset her the way it did.’

He remembered the moment all too clearly. They were in the small, self-contained apartment Ida now lived in. It was like a caricature of the house she had once called home in Stirling ‒ the same dark furniture, floral curtains and obsessive neatness, but boiled down and reduced to fit the new three-roomed, panic-button-and-grabrail-infested reality. Connor couldn’t decide if he loved the place for the comfort it brought his gran and the memories it triggered for him, or loathed it for what it had reduced her to.

She had been busying herself in the kitchen area as they spoke, serving Connor the scones she had made for his visit, along with jam, cream and tea so strong it could have been used as an industrial cleaner. He had settled across from her, watching for the darting eyes, shallow breaths and small hand-wringing gestures that told him it was a bad day and she was more in the past than the present. But on that day she had seemed fine, her eyes bright, smile relaxed.

She was just pouring tea when he produced the report from his pocket. Little more than a rectangular of cheap card, a teacher’s fading handwriting scrawled over it, detailing the progress of Jack William Fraser, who was in secondary school at the time. But two things had caught Connor’s attention. One was the content of the report, which was almost the polar opposite of the man he vaguely knew as his father. The other was the dark brown stain on the top corner of the card, which spread like a careless water mark. He had seen enough crime scenes in his time to know exactly what made a mark like that.

‘I found this in some old papers,’ he said, pushing the card across the table to his gran. ‘Wondered if you could tell me a little about it. I had no idea Dad was into the arts and English. Thought science was always his thing.’

Ida’s eyes flicked to the report card, the teapot jostling in her hand, tea sloshing into Connor’s saucer. He stood quickly, got his hands on her wrists, steadying the pot. Felt her pulse thrum beneath thin, waxy skin.

‘Sorry, son,’ Ida said, something Connor didn’t recognise dancing in her eyes. ‘It’s the arthritis, you see. I forget it can make picking up the pot difficult. Can you finish pouring for me?’

‘Course,’ Connor said, taking the pot from her as she eased herself into her seat. She sat back slowly, hand inching towards the report card then retreating, as though it was somehow as hot as the tea she had just spilled.

‘Sorry, Gran, didn’t mean to surprise you,’ Connor said, guilt flashing through him. ‘Just something I found, is all. Nothing important.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, as though waking from a dream. ‘Sorry, Connor. Yeah, your dad was a bit artistic in his youth. But he found science not long after that, I think,’ she jabbed a gnarled finger at the card, ‘and that was it, never looked back.’

Connor nodded. One thing they could agree on was that Jack Fraser never looked back. Forging a career as a successful doctor, he had never been one to second-guess his decisions, consider his actions. Including, that seemed, keeping Connor at arm’s length all his life.

‘Anyway,’ Ida said, lifting her cup, steam fogging her glasses and masking her eyes, ‘enough about the past. What’s the latest with you and this girl you’re seeing? Jennifer, isn’t it?’

And so the afternoon had worn on, Connor keeping his answers as brief and circumspect as he could, all the while assuring his gran he was ‘acting like the perfect gentleman’. But all the time they spoke, he had watched her eyes dart back to that card, as though it had a magnetic pull all of its own.

‘… don’t you think?’

The words filled the car, bringing Connor back to the present.

‘Sorry, what was that, Dad?’

An all-too-familiar sigh of impatience filled the car. ‘I said,’ Jack repeated more slowly this time, ‘that perhaps you should stop trying to take your gran on trips down Memory Lane. You know how upset she gets when she can’t remember things, Connor.’

‘Yeah, I do,’ Connor replied. And a lot fucking better than you do, he thought.

‘Good. Well, then …’ A pause on the line as Jack Fraser considered the wilderness in front of him. He had said what he needed to say to his son. What was next?

Connor seized on the moment. ‘You around this weekend at all, Dad?’ he asked. ‘Maybe we could get a pint, catch up.’

Guilty pleasure as he listened to Jack cough and squirm at the other end of the line. He had known what the answer would be before he had asked the question. Since his wife had died, Jack Fraser had had little time for his son, who had delivered the ultimate insult years before by forgoing a career in medicine for a short-lived career as a police officer, then transitioning into private security.

‘Well, I … I, ah, I’ll check my diary, get back to you.’

Connor caressed the end-call button with his thumb, suddenly wanting this over with. ‘You do that, Dad. And I’ll pop in to see Gran tonight, tell her you’re asking for her.’

He cut the call halfway through his dad saying goodbye, sat in the silence of the car for a moment. Maybe his dad was right, that he had been stupid and selfish trying to get his gran to remember something from decades ago merely to satisfy his own curiosity about a man who couldn’t have cared less about him.

Let it go, Connor, he thought. Just let it be. After all, there were more immediate problems to deal with.

He sighed, heaved himself out of the car, seized by the sudden need to move. Surveyed the car park, didn’t spot DCI Ford’s vehicle in any of the bays. Good. That gave him just enough time to track down Robbie and get himself ready for what was going to be a very long unpleasant afternoon.

The gun was stripped down on the table in front of him, a surprisingly innocuous jumble of springs and slides and metal; a lethal jigsaw just waiting to be assembled.

He set about inspecting the parts and cleaning them as necessary, pausing only to savour the one measure of whisky he had allotted himself for the task. The peaty aroma combined with the surprisingly sweet tang of the gun oil and sour afternote of gunpowder in his nose. It somehow intensified the pleasure of the whisky, he thought. Then again, he could be deluding himself, telling a story to make the experience more profound, give him an excuse to fall deeper into the bottle and wash away the cold hard truth of what he was doing right now.

He thought back to the day he had bought the gun, all those years ago. Unlike in the TV series, the films or the books, there had been no clandestine meeting in an abandoned, shadow-dipped building in Glasgow or Edinburgh, no rendezvous on a desolate stretch of waste ground that looked out onto the cold, grey waters of the Clyde or the Forth. No, he had driven to a farm in the Borders, been welcomed by a ruddy-cheeked, white-haired man who had a belly as full as his laugh, and shown to a warm outhouse where the aroma of horse manure hung in the air. Money had been exchanged and the gun had been produced – an immaculate SIG Sauer, still in its box, nestled there with three extra clips. The farmer had happily given his full name, then taken an hour to show him how to use the weapon. Of course, he could have got that training at work, but what was the point of raising suspicions?

He had driven home, using the time to contemplate what he had just done, persuade himself that he had, ultimately, had no choice. Once home, he had placed the weapon in a pre-selected hiding place and then, like an insurance policy, he had forgotten about it. Until, that was, the next headline or TV programme brought everything flooding back, and he found himself retreating to the attic and pulling the weapon from behind the insulation panel where it waited for him. For today.

Satisfied with his cleaning, he began to reassemble the weapon. After all these years it was an act as natural as tying his shoelaces or making a cup of tea, yet today his hands shook slightly, the components rattling like loose teeth as he clicked them together. He took another swig of the whisky, resisted the urge to pour another glass.

When the gun was assembled, he laid it on the table, leaned back and surveyed his work. And as ever, in that moment, a third option occurred to him, as alluring as the whisky bottle sitting on the table beside the gun. Just pick it up, chamber a round, flick off the safety. Feel the chill of the barrel against his chin, close his eyes. Pull the trigger. Let God or the Devil or whatever was waiting for him judge him. He didn’t fear that judgement. He knew what he had done. Knew the price he would ultimately pay.

His hand strayed forward, hovered over the gun for an instant, then settled on the whisky bottle. He topped up his glass, swallowed it in a swig, told himself the tears nipping at the back of his eyes were caused by the acidic burn of the alcohol, nothing else.

It was time. Finally, after all these years, it was time. Time to finish what had been started one cold, blood-soaked night more than a decade ago, when he had discovered that monsters could be found in the most prosaic of places and that there were horrors in this world that could barely be contained in a rational mind.

He picked up the gun, the sound of a round being chambered a blunt insult to the silence of the room. Wondered how long it would be until he unleashed that bullet into the world, and which monster it would be aimed at when he did so.

When Ford arrived, Connor was waiting in Sentinel’s fourth-floor conference room, contemplating the view. The day had darkened, sky fading to an apathetic grey, as though it wanted to rain on the world but was too lethargic to share its misery. Connor wished Ford felt the same way.

He stood up when Robbie showed Ford into the room, extending his h. . .