Fuck, I groaned to myself as I scanned the shoppers and sellers. A hot dog stand next to me blew out hot, salty air. I could smell sizzling meat, cinnamon mulled wine, and stinky cheeses. A figure splashed through a fountain, and I turned my head sharply to watch. My brain registered that he was Kennedy’s height and wore the same long coat. Amateur error. I would have ditched the coat by then. I zig-zagged through the market and hoped Harding was on my tail.
I pushed through a group of bespectacled students, and as my arm knocked into a chestnut stand, the warm nuts scattered all over the floor, exploding under feet like peppercorns. A man bellowed after my departing figure.
A hundred thoughts spun through my mind all at once. I worried that I didn’t know where we were headed, and that Kennedy could lead us to someplace dangerous. More explosives, maybe? Was this the backup plan? It occurred to me that Kennedy might have an accomplice who was lying in wait for us. It was a likely possibility, but, I’d also understood from the man that he didn’t work well with other people. He was a loner in his job and in life.
I spotted Kennedy again when he ducked down a side street, and then I finally clocked where he was going. The train station. I sucked in the cold air and felt it heave in my chest. I ran the way I had at school, as I’d taken delight in sprinting through cross country races, my legs burning but never slowing down, the pale Glaswegian sun above my head. How could Kennedy maintain his speed? The guy looked like he hadn’t eaten a solid meal in weeks.
The station was a local one with only two platforms, both of which connected to Haverley and Waymarket. I didn’t know it very well and the thought unnerved me. It felt like charging blind into a battle.
Harding clattered behind me, and I slowed down so she could catch up. We were outside the back entrance to the station. The area was full of rusted ladders and sandbags, so I guessed it was for construction workers only.
“Where is he going?” the brunette panted beside me.
“I don’t know,” I said and looked up at the departure screen where the schedule glowed in a bright orange ember. “There’s no train leaving for another fifteen minutes.”
I creaked open the large metal gate, and we hurried in.
“Do Ops know we’re here?” I asked my partner.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “They’re tracking us.”
The path was cobbled, narrow, and darkened by the dying sun. It smelled of litter and rust and reminded me of the horrible alleyway outside the station and what we’d found at the end of it. A man in a hi-vis vest appeared from a side door and spotted us.
“Hey!” he called out. “You shouldn’t be down here!”
“We’re police,” Harding rushed to reassure him as I took out my badge.
“I’m looking for a man in a long coat, medium height, have you seen him?” I asked.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he replied, backed away, and held up his hands.
“Have you seen him?” I repeated.
“Platform 2 I think,” he said and pointed across the bridge.
I squinted across the platform. It was sunset and a thin film of fog lingered in the air. There were a few early birds waiting for their train. One person shouted angrily when a figure in a grey coat nearly knocked them onto the tracks, but the mystery figure kept going. I squinted, watched the way the figure moved, and I knew it was Kennedy.
“Thanks!” Harding called to the high-vis man as we started to run again.
There was a bridge to connect the platforms, and I pulled myself quickly up the steps. I clutched the greasy rails as I splashed through the puddles that dotted the steps. My legs didn’t feel solid anymore, like only sheer will was keeping me upright, but at least I was still moving.
I heard a groan behind me, and looked back to see Harding knelt on the wet floor where she gripped her ankle.
“Have you twisted it?” I asked in desperation.
I searched for Kennedy and saw him at the far end of the platform where only staff were allowed. There was nowhere else for him to go, and we had him trapped, as long as we could get there.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
Harding gritted her teeth and stood up. “I’ll be fine,” she sighed.
I helped her down the stairs before I pulled out my gun. The silver metal glinted in the remaining sunlight, and Harding quickly spotted it.
“Sir,” she warned. “We don’t shoot to kill.”
“He’s got a gun, too, Harding,” I reminded her. “Are you expecting me to walk in empty-handed?”
“I just wanted to put it out there,” the brunette said.
She tried to put her weight on her ankle and winced.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll catch up.”
I checked my watch and then tried to estimate how long it had been since I’d turned off my radio. By my estimation, I had at least twenty minutes before anyone else would show up. Twenty minutes alone with an armed mad man. I clutched my gun tighter and hoped that Kennedy was a poor shot.
As I paced down the platform, a woman caught my eye. She looked me up and down with interest, then she clocked the gun in my hand. I watched her stumble backwards and look around to make sure there were witnesses. I held up my badge. More passengers had gathered on the platform by then, and I decided to solve the problem before it became one.
“Police coming through!” I shouted and held my badge up high.
The civilians jumped out of my way as I closed in on Kennedy’s forlorn figure next to the tracks. By the time I was close enough to get a good look at him, we were the only two people left at that end of the platform. The rest of the people were crowded together near the opposite end, and I imagined more than one phone was probably pointed in our direction.
“Don’t come any closer,” he warned.
I stopped, and after a brief hesitation, I took a small step forward.
“I mean it,” the man called again, and his voice sounded brittle in the cold air.
I stared at Kennedy as I took another step. I wanted to defy him and prove that he no longer had any power. We circled each other, our eyes not leaving the other’s face. I feinted at him, Kennedy jerked up his hands protectively, and I laughed. His mouth screwed up into a snarl. He was angry. Good. Angry people make mistakes.
“Why are we here, Duncan?” I asked him. “What’s the end game?”
“You don’t understand,” Kennedy called. “I just wanted to restore justice for my son.”
“I understand perfectly,” I argued. “But what about the families of the women your son killed? What would you say to them?”
“He didn’t kill them,” Kennedy muttered as the last of the sun dipped behind a cloud.
“Your son was guilty,” I replied, and I looked the man straight in the eyes. “He was a murderer.”
I saw Kennedy’s hand close around the stolen gun, and I lunged. As I threw a heavy left hook at his face, he stumbled back, gripped his cheek, and when he withdrew his hand I saw blood on his fingers. It dripped from his nose. His face had already started to bruise, and his eye was the size of a pinprick, swelling quickly.
A large, bear-like man stumbled towards us to intervene, and I saw on his face a flash of pure, bloodthirsty desire to hit someone and make them hurt. Harding held the man’s arm, pushed him back, and showed her badge, and the man watched me sullenly.
Kennedy swung, and I ducked, heard the whistle of his fist slicing through the air and narrowly missing my face. I stood up too quickly and felt dizzy, the world shimmering. I flew for Kennedy, but he took advantage of my disoriented state and grabbed my wrist. His long, pale fingers were tight as a manacle around my wrist, and I was surprised by the strength of him and how his nails dug into my skin. I twisted his hand in a circle and pushed it. Hard. His grip broke, and then he was on his knees on the damp floor, bent forward like some medieval servant.
Harding moved forwards with a pair of handcuffs, but the forlorn man still had the gun. He waved it at us, and Harding stopped in her tracks.
Kennedy’s face was wet, but with tears or rain, I couldn’t tell. He sniffed pathetically and wiped his bloodied nose.
“Duncan, tell me how to stop the explosion!” I demanded.
“He was my son,” Kennedy said in a quiet voice. “My only son. He was always just that.”
“But he was also a killer,” I said and stared down at the man.
“I don’t want to leave my wife alone,” Kennedy simpered as his face screwed up.
“But you will,” I said. “You’re going to prison. That was the choice you made.”
He looked at me, and I saw true grief in his face.
“No,” he said in a quiet voice. “That’s not what I meant.”
Kennedy brought the barrel of the gun to his head. I thought, in horror, of all the parts of his brain which would explode across the platform. Hippocampus. Frontal lobe. Cerebral cortex.
But then Kennedy turned the gun on me. I froze for a moment, just long enough to hear Harding gasp. And then a lifetime of training and instinct fired up my body, and I darted forwards to wrestle the gun from his hands. I was too quick, and Kennedy had no time to get away. As we struggled for the weapon, Kennedy’s glasses fell to the floor. He lunged as I kicked them away, and I heard the glass shatter in two. I prised the gun from his fingers, and he whimpered as he clutched at his face.
He barreled towards Harding with his arms out wide, and it was clear he couldn’t see very well without his glasses. The two collided, and Kennedy careened away as the roar of an incoming train blew towards us. I reached for Harding and tried to steady her, but Kennedy stumbled out of my reach.
“This train will not be stopping. Please stand back from the platform,” the mechanical voice warned.
Kennedy stopped for a moment as the announcement echoed along the platform, and he looked back in the direction of the train. I saw him squint, as if he were trying to pick out the shape of the train among the shadows, and then he tried to run along the edge of the platform. But he tripped over a crack, his ankle gave out, and he fell over the edge. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound emerged.
His grey coat billowed around his body for just a moment as if it might carry him to safety. The steel tracks hissed white-hot, there was a frantic screech of a whistle, a pair of teenage girls screamed, and then Duncan Kennedy’s terrified eyes flashed wide open. He turned his head in time to see the big, steel mouth of the train slam into him.
Chapter 15
The bar had dimmed lighting, two fake fireplaces, and jazz music which played softly from the speakers. DS Harding had chosen the place. She had insisted on a drink after we left the train station, and this was the nicest bar in the area. Every surface was made of dark mahogany, and the chairs were high enough to make you feel as if you were floating.
Truthfully, I was more comfortable in local pubs, with dartboards and stretch televisions, with lagers, and salty, fatty snacks. But it was Harding’s choice, and the least I could do was accept.
I looked at the Brit across the candlelight. I hadn’t really seen her outside of work before, except for accidental meet-ups if we were on the same street, when she was almost always with friends. Her long chestnut hair was loose, freshly washed, and smelt of strawberries and coconut. She looked like the type of woman who should distract bad guys in a movie.
The waitress handed my partner a glittering, v-shaped martini, with the three olives she’d stubbornly requested. I had a pint, black as tar and just as thick. The head was creamy and smooth. I took a sip and sighed.
“How’s your ankle?” I asked.
She looked down at her bare leg.
“Not suitable for heels,” she replied. “But I’ll survive.”
“So, what’s bothering you, then?” I asked.
I’d seen the anxiety etched in her features ever since we’d provided our statements to the crew now combing the train station. I thought I could guess her concern, but I wanted to hear it from her.
Harding took a gulp of her drink, then she smacked her lips together, and I noticed she’d left a purple lipstick stain on the glass.
“You did a great job today, honestly,” I reassured her. “They’ll probably try to shower you in accolades.”
“Oh, Christ,” she huffed. “The last thing I want is physical evidence that this case existed.”
Her phone lit up on the table, and she glanced at the screen before pressing the ignore call option.
“Another string of congratulations,” she complained.
“Why don’t you accept it like everyone else?” I asked incredulously. “If the case had gone wrong, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Matthew London would be dead, and a lot of other cops would be, too.”
“There’s going to be an enquiry about how Kennedy died,” she stated gloomily.
“It’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “You’ll be fine.”
Even as I said the words, I wasn’t sure if I believed them. How many eyewitnesses had seen Kennedy fall off the platform? How many cameras had captured him on the tracks?
I still wasn’t sure what I’d seen. All I remembered accurately was how Kennedy pushed into Harding, and in the next moment, he was spread-eagled on the hot metal tracks.
I looked at my partner across the table.
She stirred her drink with the cocktail stick and stared into the clear liquid, and I wondered what she was thinking. She couldn’t have pushed Kennedy. I knew that, but I hoped others would, too. They could pile on her like bricks. Bricks that she might not struggle out of. It could end her career.
I knew we’d have to answer more questions tomorrow, and I decided that would be a good time to suggest a better version of events, one where Kennedy slipped in a puddle. It could easily have happened that way, and possibly even did. They wouldn’t question my version of events. They might suspect I was lying to protect my partner, but they wouldn’t openly question it.
“It’s not just my fate that’s bothering me,” she blurted out. “Although I am panicking about that.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Do you know what I keep thinking of?” Harding asked.
I shook my head and sucked at my pint. I wished the bar sold crisps, but all food items had to be ordered from a menu.
“All those people who were at the train station,” she explained. “All they saw was a frightened man, because that’s what Kennedy was in the end. He was just scared to die. What do you think those people will say about it to their families and friends? Do you think they’ll call us monsters?”
“They might think he was a scared, innocent man,” I reassured her gently. “But we know that’s not true. And they won’t think he was innocent for long.”
She shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant, but I saw the tear slip down her cheeks.
“And nobody will say that of you,” I continued. “The case is going to be played out on every news channel for a week. They won’t describe him as a loving father, they’ll call him what he was. A killer.”
“I can’t believe the car didn’t explode,” Harding said.
“It would have if the squad hadn’t got there so quickly,” I explained. “The disposal team is still clearing up.”
“Do you think he knew how many people would die?” Harding asked with eyes wide. “Maybe the bomb was more powerful than he thought. He’s not a chemist.”
I considered the possibility. Then I remembered Kennedy’s glee as we evacuated the station and the bloodlust in his eyes.
“No,” I replied. “He wanted his revenge.”
“I didn’t ask you this,” the brunette began to say. “Did you hear from Scott about the CCTV footage? Of the car crash?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Hit and run. The driver has been arrested for manslaughter.”
Harding put her head in her hands and stared at her drink for a moment.
“Once you start to examine crime, you realise it’s everywhere,” she moaned. “So many people are capable of murder.”
“If there weren’t, we’d be out of a job,” I reminded her. “Cheer up.”
I heard a loud pop in the corner and looked around to see a group of suited men cheer as champagne was poured into their glasses.
“I wish we were celebrating like that,” Harding complained.
“We could be,” I joked. “If you weren’t so miserable. We closed a case, we saved a lot of innocent lives. I know there’s going to be a backlash, but it’ll be significantly less than if the explosion had happened.”
There would be more than a backlash. I’d seen the cops’ faces as they converged on the train station and saw Kennedy’s body. What was left of him, anyway. Nobody had been angry, not even Clarke. None of us would regret that a cop killer was dead. But I saw the suspicion in their eyes. The scene appeared a little too convenient. I couldn’t blame them. I’d have thought the same.
I watched Harding’s eyes scan the bar, and then she raised an eyebrow and offered me a light smile.
“What?” I asked.
“You could always find a new drinking buddy, sir,” she said. “If I’m such a let down.”
“In here?” I complained. “Not a chance.”
“Don’t speak so soon,” she replied and nodded towards the bar.
I looked towards the long length of mahogany and felt myself tighten into knots as I saw a familiar shape. ACC Elizabeth Clarke leaned against the wooden bar. She sipped on a glass of caramel-coloured whisky as she talked to the bartender.
“What is she doing here?” I muttered.
“No idea, sir,” Harding replied. “But it’s good timing, because I have to be going.”
“No, you don’t,” I scoffed. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but stop it.”
The brunette downed the last of her martini and got to her feet. She winced a little as she stood.
“Don’t hate me because I’m young and in demand,” she teased.
I rolled my eyes up to the bohemian chandelier. I didn’t dare look at Clarke yet. My partner put on her coat and then limped to the exit. She turned to wave at me and then pointed towards Clarke.
“Harding?” I called out. “Don’t be late for work.”
Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Page 28