Page 18 of Watching You
‘That’s my question too,’ Connie murmured. ‘Maybe fantasising about how it would feel to chase women through woodland? The question is, did he go there with someone, or did someone follow him, or did something happen while he was there that enraged someone enough to kill him?’
A uniformed officer entered at a run. ‘Something’s happening in the centre of the city,’ she blurted.
Chapter 16
1 June
‘That escalated fast,’ Lively said. ‘Salter, this one’s yours.’
‘Oh no, you’ve got that man-of-the-people thing going on,’ Salter replied. ‘Plus, you’re more senior than me by long service. This is definitely on you. Go ahead and show me how it’s done.’
They looked out of the window of the police van at the crowd stopping traffic in York Place. It was a centre point for traffic flow, with access to Edinburgh’s newest shopping centre on one side, a multiplex cinema on another, and a variety of restaurants, shops and cafés scattered around. The protest was a flashpoint waiting to explode. On one side, men, women and children held banners with Divya Singh’s name printed in bright letters, some with a photo, others with slogans. In their midst, a man was standing on a makeshift stage and shouting into a loudspeaker.
‘Justice is white!’ he yelled. ‘Where is the hunt for Divya Singh’s murderer? What do we have to do to be seen? What do we have to do to matter? It’s time to make our voices heard! It’s time we demanded action! Divya deserves better – we alldo. Because next it will be your wife or mother or sister. Divya Singh must be avenged!’
The crowd roared, raised their banners and fists, and pumped the air.
In response, an equally large crowd yelled back and began pushing against the barrier of uniformed officers that had been hastily assembled as part of the city’s crisis management protocol. Those were largely men, but there were a handful of women in the throng, and they used their voices and their faces in lieu of banners. No one needed their perspective put in writing to comprehend what was going on. The far right was out in force, the racist name-calling had begun, and it could only be a matter of minutes until someone threw something. There were paramedics standing by, but Lively didn’t like their chances of intervening once the blue touch paper was lit.
‘There’s going to be blood spilled,’ Lively said. ‘How many more officers can we get out here?’
‘We’ve got extra bodies coming in from Glasgow now but they won’t be here for an hour. Any off-duty units are being asked to come in to field calls beyond this event, and armed units are getting in place in concealed vantage points in case anything happens,’ Salter said. ‘If you’re going to do something, sarge, now would be the time.’
‘Right, get me the organisers of the Divya Singh rally. Make it clear they’re in no trouble and that we agree the community needs answers. If we can turn down the gas a little, we might just be able to disperse this thing. And I want cameras – publicly positioned but in safe zones – recording the faces of everyone in the anti-protest. I want them to know we mean business. Anyone gets out of hand, we’ll be able to identify them.’
He took another look out of the window as Salter began issuing commands. Within the growing crowd, the more savvy ofthe troublemakers were already wearing balaclavas, which was all the evidence Lively needed that the call had gone out across the city to get there fast and be prepared for a fight. Edinburgh was a good place, a city that took pride in inclusivity, tolerance and kinship, but there was the same undercurrent everywhere that whipped up discontent and turned it into hatred faster than you could get out your ASP.
Lively climbed out of the van with his stab jacket and helmet on, much as he’d have preferred to do things the old-fashioned way, with a wing and a prayer. It seemed to him that putting on armour gave the impression that you wanted a fight, rather than doing your best to avoid one. He made his way round the back, through a corridor of uniformed police, to where the Divya Singh protestors had their centre of operations, and saw Salter ahead of him, figuring out who to speak with. He was shoved from one side and elbowed from another, but the contact was accidental or careless rather than malicious. A couple of minutes later, a man and woman were brought to him. He extended a hand, which they stared at rather than shake.
‘I’d like to talk, if we can find a better place to do so,’ Lively said. ‘I appreciate how you’re feeling, and my officers are in attendance for your protection. We have no desire to escalate this and we’re not planning any arrests. What I am keen to do, is hear you out. I might have information that will help, and you might have some ideas as to how we can better serve your community.’
Salter was looking at him strangely, and Lively felt the warm, slightly sickly glow of approval. Had he not been mid-negotiation, he’d have told her to sod off, even if there was some strange part of him that was enjoying the moment.
‘Why did it take this for you to listen to us?’ the woman asked. ‘And why should we believe that you’re interested inanything other than getting us out of the public eye? We’ve got journalists coming, including at least one TV station. They’re going to be interviewing us.’
‘I’m glad. Anything that brings attention to the case might help us resolve it sooner. But it’s not fair to be doing this in public view. We have a duty to Mrs Singh’s family, and I don’t want them getting the impression that we’re discussing the case without their knowledge or consent.’
‘This isn’t just about Divya. Our community is consistently ignored when it comes to policing and nothing changes until—’
The missile hit Lively square in the neck and cut through flesh.
He went down knees first, followed by the muffled thud of a body hitting tarmac.
Chapter 17
1 June
Brodie Baarda walked a little behind Connie Woolwine as she strode through the hospital corridors, leaving a wake of some perfume he couldn’t name and a slipstream of purposefulness.
She had legs long enough to catch the attention of most men and plenty of women, hair that she most often wore in a ponytail, swinging in rhythm with her footsteps, and a smile that could disarm pretty much anyone. But all of that was just window-dressing.
Beneath her favourite jeans, worn so often they were thinning and faded, and the suede jacket that really wasn’t fit for Scotland’s changeable weather and propensity to rain even when the sky appeared cloudless and blue, was a person so intuitive and intelligent that she took his breath away not just daily but sometimes hourly. Connie was a force of nature.
‘If you walk behind me like that, people are gonna think you’re my bodyguard. Something on your mind?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Just thinking about the cases,’ Baarda lied. In truth, thecases they were in Edinburgh to help with were relatively straightforward compared to their usual projects, and he was grateful for that. Connie and he had been living life at rollercoaster pace for the two years since she’d asked him to take retirement from the Met and partner with him. They’d seen their fair share of trouble in that time, and more than once Baarda had believed that he was going to lose her. More than that, far more worrying in fact, was his bubbling subterranean stream of belief that Connie Woolwine did not fear death.
She’d stared it down often enough that he had begun to think she relished the fight, and what he knew (and she refused to be told) was the fact that it was a battle you could join only so many times without taking a mortal blow. Connie, he believed, was someone who needed to stare death down perhaps to persuade herself that being alive was the better option.
