‘Mum, I—’
‘You have never been anything but a leech! You were a maggot wriggling at my breast!’
He took a step backwards. ‘Mum, don’t—’
‘I never wanted you! You were a mistake! You hear me? You were a nasty, rotten, fucking awful mistake!’
Watson could see the legs shift as Martin Strichen turned his back on his mother. Running away, making for the lounge. But Mrs Strichen wanted her pound of flesh. She stormed after him, her voice rising like a rusty chainsaw. ‘Don’t you turn your back on me, you little bastard! Two years! You hear me? Two years your father was inside when I had you! You ruined everything! You were always useless!’
‘Don’t. . .’ The word was quiet, but Watson could hear the threat in it.
Mrs Strichen couldn’t. ‘You make me sick!’ she screeched. ‘Fiddling with little boys! You filthy, dirty bastard. If your father was alive—’
‘What? What? If my father was alive: what?’ Martin’s voice was thunderous, shaking with rage.
‘He’d beat you to a pulp! That’s what!’
Something smashed in the lounge. A vase or a jug.
Taking advantage of the noise, Watson curled her legs beneath her and pushed, inching her way along the floor like a caterpillar. Making for the hall and the telephone.
‘This is all his fault!’
‘Don’t you blame your father for what you are, you filthy bastard!’
The hall carpet was rough under her cheek as Watson wriggled out of the kitchen and into the hall. In the living room something else crashed against the wall.
‘He did this to me! Him!’ There were tears in Martin’s voice, but they couldn’t cover the rage underneath. ‘He put me in hospital! He gave me to that . . . that . . . Cleaver! Every night! Every bloody night!’
‘Don’t you talk about your father like that!’
‘Every night! Gerald Cleaver used me every fucking night! I was eleven!’
Watson had reached the phone table, the hall carpet giving way to the cold plastic mat.
‘You miserable, whining little bastard!’
A slap rang out, flesh against flesh, and there was a moment’s silence.
WPC Watson risked a glance into the lounge, but all she could see were shadows on the wallpaper. Martin Strichen was crouched with one hand on his face, his mother towering above him.
Watson wriggled forward, level with the phone table. Now she could see right into the living room and the small dining room beyond. A pile of clothes sat next to an ironing board. And right in front of them Mrs Strichen aimed another stinging hand at her son.
‘You filthy, filthy little bastard!’ She punctuated each word with a vicious slap to Martin’s head.
Watson gave the phone table a shove with her shoulder, the noise hidden by all the shouting and yelling. The phone rocked in its cradle, once, twice, then pirouetted silently to the floor. No one heard it clunk against the plastic matting.
‘I should have strangled you at birth!’
Watson fumbled the phone into her hands, twisting her head over her shoulder to see the buttons, punching 999 in with her thumb. She cast a frantic glance back at the lounge. No one was looking in her direction. She couldn’t hear the phone ringing over the racket of Mrs Strichen attacking her son, but she scooted down anyway, pinning the phone to the floor with her ear, her gagged mouth over the mouthpiece.
‘Emergency Services. Which service do you require?’
She did her best to answer, but all that came out was a series of muffled grunts.
‘I’m sorry, can you repeat that?’
Sweating, Jackie Watson tried again.
‘This is an emergency number.’ Friendliness had vanished from the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘It is an offence to make prank phone calls!’
All Jackie could do was grunt again.
‘That’s it. I’m going to report this!’
No! No! They had to trace the number and send help!
The line went dead.
Furious, she dropped the phone and wriggled forward once more, grabbing the handset to dial 999 again.
The thud, when it came, was soft and wet.
She snatched her eyes away from the phone and into the lounge. Mrs Strichen was staggering toward the couch, her face white as the snow outside. Behind her stood Martin, the iron in his hand, his expression strangely calm and serene. His mother stumbled, grabbing onto the overstuffed cushions for support and Martin stepped up behind her and brought the iron down in a sweeping arc. It connected with the back of her skull and she went down like a sack of potatoes.
Watson felt her gorge rise. Shivering, she mashed her thumb on the keys again.
Mrs Strichen’s quivering hand flailed at the back of the couch. Her son held the iron at chest height, his other hand stretching out the electrical cord. Something like a smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he bent down and wrapped the cable around his mother’s neck. Her foot thumped against the carpet as he squeezed the life out of her.
Gritting her teeth, WPC Watson grabbed the phone and wriggled back towards the kitchen. She was crying openly now, impotence and self-pity mingling with the terror of seeing another human being murdered. And knowing that she was going to be next.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and tried to remember DS McRae’s mobile number. Behind her, through the open kitchen door, she could hear Mrs Strichen’s foot ever more faintly pounding against the floor.
Jackie’s thumbs traced Logan’s number on the phone’s keypad and she did the same drop-and-wriggle routine she’d tried on the Emergency Services. Come on, come on! Pick up!
Click.
‘Logan.’
She screamed, the rag in her mouth smothering the noise until all that came out was a squeak.
‘Hello? Who is this?’
No! Not again! He had to hear her!
‘Miller? Is that you?’
She screamed again, obscenities this time, cursing him for being so bloody stupid.
Martin Strichen’s shadow fell across the kitchen. He still had the iron in one hand, thick red splashes coating the polished metal surface. Greasy, curled hairs stuck to the clots.
Her eyes darted from the iron to Martin’s face. Scarlet freckles covered the right-hand side of his broad, pockmarked features. He looked down at her with sorrow, then picked up the phone, held it to his ear and listened for a second to Logan demanding to know who was calling his mobile. Then, calmly, he pressed the red button and ended the call.
The scissors came from the top drawer, under the kettle, their blades glinting in the cold overhead light. He smiled down at Jackie.
Snip, snip, snip.
‘Time to do it properly. . .’
Logan stared at the phone in his hand and cursed. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about without prank phone calls! He punched the button that brought up the last number that had called. It was local, but he didn’t recognize it. Scowling, he hit ‘call back’ and listened as the phone automatically bleeped and beeped its way through the number that had called him, returning the favour.
It rang and rang and rang. No answer. Right, he decided, there were two ways to skin a cat. He scribbled the number down and called Control, asking them to put an address to the telephone number. It took the man on the other end of the phone almost five minutes, but he finally came back with: ‘Mrs Agnes Strichen, 25 Howesbank Avenue, Aberdeen. . .’
Logan didn’t wait for the postcode, just shouted, ‘Fuck!’ and floored the accelerator. The car slithered snakelike out onto the road. ‘Listen to me,’ he told Control, whipping the rusty Vauxhall through the snow and ice, ‘DI Insch has two cars in Middlefield. I want them at that address now!’
By the time Logan got there, the two cars were already slewed across the road outside the front of number 25. The wind was dying away and fat flakes drifted down from the dirty orange sky. The
air tasted of pepper.
Logan slammed on the brakes and the car skidded on the snow-covered tarmac and only came to a halt when it bounced off the kerb. He scrambled out of the car, slipping and sliding his way up the stairs and into the house Martin Strichen shared with his mother.
Mrs Strichen was in the lounge, lying on her front, the back of her head caved in, thick red lines circling her throat. The sound of angry voices came from the small kitchen and Logan burst through to see two uniformed policemen, one bending over a crumpled figure on the floor, the other on his radio: ‘Repeat we have an officer down!’
Logan’s eyes darted around the cramped room, coming to rest on a pile of fabric in the corner next to the bin.
A third uniform exploded into the room, breathing hard. ‘We’ve been all over the house: no sign of anyone.’
Logan prodded the pile of cloth. It had been a pair of black trousers at one time. And there, underneath it were the remains of a black jumper and a white blouse. The kind with loops on the shoulders, specially designed to incorporate police epaulettes. He looked over his shoulder as the fourth of DI Insch’s watchdogs screeched to a halt in the hall, behind his partner. ‘Where is she?’
‘There’s no one in the house, sir.’
‘Damn it!’ Logan jumped to his feet. ‘You and you—’ he pointed at the two latecomers, who’d been searching the house, ‘—out front! He’s got WPC Watson. Search every street, every open door, everything you can find!’
They stood for a moment, looking down at the crumpled figure of PC Simon Rennie on the kitchen floor.
‘Move it!’ Logan yelled.
They scrambled away.
‘How is he?’ he asked, stepping over the body and opening the back door, letting a wall of cold air collapse into the room.
‘Taken a nasty blow to the back of the head. He’s breathin’ but he’s no’ lookin’ too good.’
Logan nodded. ‘Stay with him.’ He jabbed a finger at the last PC. ‘You, come with me!’
In the back garden the snow was up to their knees. It had drifted against the walls of the building, ramping up to just under the windows, but there was an easily discernible path leading away into the darkness.
‘Damn it.’
Gritting his teeth, Logan waded into the snow.
38
It wasn’t much more than a shack. A concrete lean-to off the quarry road. This was where he had played as a child. No, not played. Hidden. Hidden from his father. Hidden from the world.
The granite-grey bowl of the quarry wall was only visible as a shadow through the drifting snow. They had cut straight into the rock, making a cliff, then turned their attention on the deposit underground, leaving behind a deep, treacherous lake. Even in the height of summer the water was cold and dark, its depths snarled with binding forests of weed and shopping trolleys near the shore, dropping off to a bottomless pit further in. No one swam in the quarry lake. Not since two boys had disappeared in the late fifties.
This was a haunted place. A place for the dead. It suited him just fine.
The police weren’t supposed to be at the house! That wasn’t right. They shouldn’t have been there. . . He crunched his way through the ankle-deep snow towards the quarry cabin, breathing hard. They were heavy, making his shoulders ache. But it was all going to be worth it. She was a good girl. Didn’t struggle. Martin had only kicked her in the head once, and after that she was good as gold. All quiet and peaceful as he snipped off her clothes.
His hands had trembled at the feel of her skin: cool to the touch and soft as he cut away, leaving just the bra and pants. What they hid scared him. Made him ache. . .
And then the phone went. Ringing and ringing and ringing as he hefted her over his shoulder, picked up the big holdall, and staggered out of the back door. They were coming for him.
A big brass padlock held the cabin door shut, next to a sign saying ‘WARNING: DANGER OF COLLAPSE. ACCESS PROHIBITED.’
Grunting, he took a step back and slammed his foot into the wood, next to the lock. The old door boomed, bouncing under his attack, but the padlock stayed firm. He kicked it again, and once more for luck. The third boom echoed off the quarry walls, covering the sound of cracking wood as the padlock’s fixings gave way.
Inside, it was freezing and dark, the smell of rats and mice fading away under years of dust. Grinning nervously, he slid the woman off his shoulder onto the concrete floor. Her pale skin shone against the dark grey and he shivered, trying to pretend it was the cold. But he knew it was her.
The large holdall went next to her. Afterwards, he knew, it would make him sick to his stomach. Make him sick until there was nothing left but bile and shame. But that was for later. For now his blood roared in his ears.
With numb fingers he tugged down the zip.
‘Hello?’ he said.
Inside the bag, little Jamie McCreath opened his eyes and began to scream.
The footprints were disappearing fast, thick white flakes of snow filling them up, making everything smooth and featureless. Logan slithered to a halt, his eyes scanning the landscape. The trail had led directly away from the house, right out into the darkness. And now the trail was gone.
He swore bitterly.
The PC he’d dragged along puffed to a halt behind him. ‘What now, sir?’ he asked, panting for breath.
Logan looked about him, trying to guess which way Martin Strichen had gone, taking WPC Watson with him. Damn it! He’d told Insch it was a bad idea to leave just two of them at the house! ‘Split up,’ he said at last. ‘We need to cover as much ground as we can.’
‘Which way do you want me to—’
‘I don’t care! Just find her!’
He pulled his mobile out of his pocket as the PC, looking hurt, stomped off at a forty-five degree angle into the snow.
‘DS McRae,’ he told the woman who answered. ‘Where are my reinforcements?’
‘One moment. . .’
Logan swept his eyes across the featureless landscape again. It was as if someone had erased the world, leaving nothing behind but a plain of white under a yellowed-slate sky.
‘Hello, DS McRae? DI Insch says they’re on their way. And PCs from Bucksburn should be with you in two minutes.’
He could already hear the faint wail of sirens, the sound deadened by the falling snow.
Logan forged on through the drifts, icy water slowly seeping into his trousers, making his legs heavy. He was breathing like a train, his breath coming out in thick clouds of vapour, hanging around his head in the still night, his own personal fog bank.
A sinking feeling was forming in his chest. There was little chance of finding Martin Strichen in the dark and snow. Not without dogs. Maybe he should have waited for the dogs? But he knew there was no way he could just sit there and not do something. Anything.
There was a slight rise in the ground and he laboured up it, the snow coming to his knees. And then he was at the top, feeling his heart leap into his throat, his bowels clench. The ground had disappeared! He stood on the lip of the precipice, arms pinwheeling to keep his balance, one foot hanging in space.
Logan staggered back onto firm land, then inched forward until he was standing on the edge of the cliff again.
It was one of the quarries. A wide, three-quarter circle of sheer walls with a dark lake at the bottom. The falling snow, drifting down below him only made the feeling of vertigo worse. It had to be fifty, sixty foot straight down to the cold, black water.
His heartbeat was still furious, pounding through his veins, making his ears buzz.
There was a boxy concrete cabin at the foot of the cliffs not far from the water’s edge. A thin, yellow light blossomed in a cracked window before sweeping away.
Turning, Logan began to run.
The torch didn’t exactly give the cabin a cosy feel. The torch’s beam was a cone of jaundiced, washed-out light, making the shadows inside the cabin seem even thicker th
an before.
Groaning, WPC Watson flickered an eye open. Her head was stuffed full of burning cotton wool. All she could smell was copper, and her face was sticky and cold. Her whole body was cold, deep frozen. A shiver grabbed her, rattling her bones, making her head throb.
Everything was blurred, swimming in and out of focus as she struggled back to the surface. She’d been doing something. Something important. . .
Why was she so cold?
‘Are you awake?’
It was a man’s voice, nervous, almost shy. Trembling.
Everything snapped back into place.
WPC Watson tried to jump to her feet, but she was still tied hand and foot. Her lurch of intent made the room whirl around her head, the edges rushing in and out like some demonic hokey-kokey. She squeezed her eyes hard shut and hissed breath through her teeth. Gradually the pounding stopped. When she opened her eyes again she was looking straight into Martin Strichen’s worried face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, one trembling hand coming up to brush the hair from her face. ‘I didn’t want to hit you. But I had no choice. I didn’t mean to hurt you. . . Are you feeling OK?’
All she could do was mumble through the gag.
‘Good,’ said Martin, not understanding the barrage of abuse she’d just thrown at him. ‘Good.’
He stood and turned his back to her, bending over the large holdall she’d seen in the kitchen, and in a light, whispering voice began to sing the ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’. Stroking something inside the bag.
Watson’s eyes darted around the small room, looking for a weapon. The place had been an office of some sort once. A metal rack for timecards was still screwed to the wall by the door and a bloated, mildewed calendar of naked women was nailed to another. The furniture was gone, leaving nothing behind but the graffiti-covered walls and the cold concrete floor.
Another shiver grabbed her. How could it be so damned cold? She looked down, alarmed to find that she’d been stripped.
‘You don’t have to worry, little one,’ said Martin, gently.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 39