'Okay.' The man spoke quietly but the word was like a shout, knifing its way into his thoughts in the gloom of the kitchen. 'It's time to go. Time to meet your maker, Mr Martin. Come along quiet now; be a good lad and I'll give you the Last Rites.'
'Fuck you and your rites, you blasphemous bastard,' the detective snarled.
'Ahh,' said Scotland, 'that's what you're going to be is it? Defiant to the end. I had one of those once, in Armagh; only he wasn't, not to the end. He was one of them who had seen the brains flying out. At the end he was blubbering like a baby, not facing the gun, turning away and getting his head blown all over the place. I pissed on him afterwards; it was the only time I've ever done that. Before today, that is.'
'You'll piss yourself before the morning's out.'
'That's it. Keep it up, keep it up. Now, listen, this is what's going to happen. We're going outside, and we're getting into your car. I've got the keys from your jacket. If you think about making a noise when we get outside, then I'll shoot you in the back of the head. After that I'll drive to the Scotsman office and give myself up to them; that way your man Skinner can't kill me. That way it all comes out in Court.'
'What if they're outside now, waiting?'
'Then you'll be dead; me too probably. But we both know they're not, or we'd have heard by now. Come on.'
With surprising strength he hauled Martin to his feet, and pushed him towards the door. In the hall, the detective stumbled.
Do it now! a voice said. Go for him!
No; no room, gun cocked. No chance.
He picked himself up, and stepped outside, into Falcon Street.
'See?' said Scotland. 'No bastard here.' He opened the front passenger door of the white Mondeo, and jammed the gun into the middle of Martin's back, forcing him forward, awkwardly, his hands still tied, numb, behind his back, and on to the seat. Lightning fast, Scotland ran round to the driver's side and climbed in. Then, holding the gun to his captive's head with his left hand, he reached over and pulled the seat belt around him, fastening it, rendering him virtually immobile.
He started the car and grinned at the policeman wickedly. 'You know where we're going, don't you?'
'I can guess. I promise you one thing, bastard; I won't shit myself like you did.'
'You will, you know. They all do.'
Scotland put the car into gear and drove off, unhurried and steadily, out of Falcon Street and on to Gilmerton Road, turning left, heading for the City by-pass. He picked it up at Sheriffhall and headed west. Martin glanced at the car clock; it was six-twenty. Even on a Friday morning, the traffic at that time was minimal; no rescue vehicles, that was for sure.
They turned off at the Lothianburn Junction, then took the fork which led to Biggar, and eventually to the M74 and Carlisle. They would not be going that far, though, Martin knew. Still driving steadily, Scotland took the first turning to the right off the Biggar Road, a narrower country track, which climbed upwards into the Pentland Hills. After two, maybe three miles, they came to a car park, small but secluded, a clearing in a dark woodland area. They turned in and came to a halt.
'We walk from here,' said the man with the gun.
'Good, you fucker,' Martin hissed. 'I want to see how big your balls really are.'
'I've got to hand it to you, Mr Policeman.' Click; and the seat belt came undone. 'So far you're talking a good game.' Scotland climbed out of the car then opened the passenger door, hauling his prisoner out. 'Go on, that way. Take that path through the woods. Remember though, I'm right behind and I'll shoot you in the back if you do anything daft. I won't kill you, not yet, I'll just knock a piece of you out, but it'll be fucking sore.'
Not in the woods, Martin found himself praying. Don't let him do it in the woods. All wrong, not enough room. But they walked on, until the forest came to an end, giving way abruptly to open hillside, behind a fence and a sign which read,
'Warning. MoD Property. No admission. Live firing possible.'
'Live firing fucking certain,' said Scotland, gleefully. 'Go on, through it.'
The fence was three wire strands; no obstacle. Even bound, Martin slipped through, easily, his executioner following. 'Up the hill.'They climbed carefully, for the hill grass was suddenly thick in places, up towards a summit which turned out to be merely a crest, hiding another steep trek. On they trudged for, Martin judged, more than half an hour, mostly upwards, sometimes round the hillside, but always with purpose. Scotland knew exactly where he was going.
At last, they climbed another short slope and came to a rough, rock-strewn clearing; looking at it, the policeman guessed that it might have been an old crater, from a shell, or even a bomb.
'I've been here many a time since,' Lawrence Scotland murmured. 'Thinking about Alec Smith, wishing I could get him up here, crying on his knees. But I knew I never could; guys like Smith, the fanatics, the crazies, are always on their guard. And then you came to me.'
'What if I hadn't been alone?' Martin asked. The thought had never occurred to him, not once.
'There wouldn't have been more than two of you. I'd have killed the one back there at the Drum and brought the other one straight here.' The detective felt a chill as he thought of Sammy Pye and those performance-review forms; they had saved a life.
'Well, big deal, arsehole. It's worked out for you. Now let's get on with it.'
'Hah. You can't be that keen to die, Detective Chief Superintendent.' Mocking now; it was beginning. God, this buggers hard to rattle. Got to, though; got to. Martin aimed a clumsy kick at him.
'Watch it, pal,' the man called out, stepping back lightly, out of range, 'or I'll kneecap you. I saw that done once, you know, in Ireland. Fucking brutal it was; often they lose a leg after it. No, you just stand there, like a good polisman and it'll be less painful for you.'
A slow, exultant, smile. 'You know what we're going to do, don't you?'
Anger, Andy, Mr Angry. Anger is your weapon; your life depends on it.
'Of course, I fucking know,' he roared, forcing a laugh, which for an instant seemed to take the man by surprise. 'I've always wanted to play this game. Come on, show me some stuff.'
Scotland shook his head, and took a pace back.
Come closer you bastard. Need you closer.
He was much faster than Martin had expected, as he broke the breech of the pistol, emptied six bullets into his hand from their chambers, replaced just one, snapped the breech shut and spun the magazine.
Fuck. Too quick, not a chance to move.
Panic now as the gun came up: cold, clammy, terror. Pressure on bladder. Don't let go whatever you do. Keep your eyes open, look down the barrel. Take the bullet in the forehead if you have to. Inching closer, staring past the gun into Scotland's icy eyes, heart pounding, hammering, faces in the way. Dad, Mum, David, Alex, Bob, Karen, Sarah, Rhian, Jazz, Karen ... Heart bursting, head swimming, he's squeezing the trigger. . .
Nothing; only a click, an incredibly loud, almost deafening click, then a rushing in his ears. Sudden numbness, sudden explosion of sweat, sudden relief. Brains are still there, but they're not working. What to do? Stay Angry. Unsettle the bastard, if you can.
'So!' A shout; a Mr Angry shout. 'Disappointed, you rat-fucker?'
'Oh no. I'd only have been disappointed if you'd begged me, or if the gun had gone off. You know something? They say you can see the soul leave the body. I never have; but maybe you have to have a soul yourself before you can.'
Gun still steady, held on me. Now? Knew I should . .. sweet Jesus I've got to, but my Goddamn bloody legs are shaking. When I need them most they won't work.
'Round two.' Scotland, cat quick again, loading another bullet, spinning the chamber.
Missed it, fuck it. Missed the moment. Oh, Mother of Christ, I'm really dead now. No, six chambers, two bullets; two to one my favour. Take the bet, Andy, Go for him and he could fire four times before you get there. Dead for sure. Take the bet. ^After that... next try he's yours.'
Harder to hol
d it together this time. No more humour in his eyes; supposed to die or crap myself. Won't do either. Kill that rat-fucker. Kill, Kill! Heart still pounding, faces again; no, just one face. Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen. Oh fuck, Karen, he's pulling the trigger .. .
Karen still there, me still there, no more chat now, third bullet. Dead for sure. Yell! Rush. Yes, the fucker's startled, dropped it, dropped the bullet. Hit him now, shoulder first in the chest, remember the time you flattened John Jeffrey ... reverse of the usual. Knock this rat-fucker down; yes! Drive shoulder in again, crush him into the ground. In with the head, yes, in the face, hurt him, break whatever you can! Lie on his arm, pin that hand, don't let him close the breech on those two rounds. Christ, he s almost... Teeth, anything, yes, bite, go for trigger finger. Yes, got it now; bite, harder than that... Taste blood; bite harder... bite harder... shake like a terrier. . . loose in my mouth. Who's screaming? Him. Great. You taste lousy, rat-fucker, your finger tastes lousy! Spit. Roll over on him, on your back; grab for gun with your hands ... Grab ... Got it... no. Yes, got it. Breech is closed. Stand up, knee in his chest again on the way ... Turn around, try to shoot the fucker? No, could shoot yourself, just empty the gun, then deal with him. Pull trigger empty chamber, pull trigger empty chamber. On his feet now, punching me with his good hand and the other, the one with the bloody stump. Nothing stuff. Girlie hits. Pull trigger, bang round gone, pull trigger empty chamber, pull trigger bang other round gone. Christ he's got a rock now, big one, holding it up to brain me, charge again, drive harder faster this time head up kill the fucker kill the fucker head under chin drive up teeth into throat bite hard kill bite harder kill bite hardest kill kill kill kill... Got to see, Karen tell Karen Karen Karen ... bite still, tear, rip, more blood, lots more blood, listen rat-fucker for your last pathetic gurgling gasp ...
39
'How certain are you that this Howard Shearer's our man, sir?' Skinner smiled inwardly as he looked at the bleary-eyed Pringle. Eight a.m. Friday mornings in the office were not of his choosing, not any more, not at his age, not now that he was a Right Worshipful Panjandrum or whatever the hell he was in his Lodge. He thought for a moment of pointing out that there could be no degrees of certainty, but he let it pass; Nobody loves a smart-arse, he reminded himself.
'I'm not saying he is, Dan; I'm still a way short of that. But everyone who knows him ... and there were nine of us last night, ten counting Sarah ... agrees that the e-fit is a damn good likeness. There's an appendectomy scar too, and on top of that he was missing from action last night. We've always joked that the Diddler would skip his own funeral to make the game.
'I've checked his house, without breaking in, and I know that no-one's been there since Sunday at the latest. Still it's not conclusive; there could be an explanation. He's a high-flyer in fund management; he makes occasional trips to the Far East. He could be there, or he could be at a conference.
'I hope to God he is, for his sake and for his wife's.'
Pringle grunted. 'There's something else, for her sake too, sir. The man in the water had someone else's pubic hair trapped under the bell-end of his knob.'
'I know ... and I just hope we don't wind up having to ask Edith for a sample for comparison.' He paused. 'I've read Sarah's report till I know it off by heart. The part of it which deals with how he was tied up ... What did you make of that?'
The Superintendent looked at the DCC suspiciously, as if he was afraid he had been asked a trick question. 'It said that there were marks on the wrists and ankles, showing that he had been securely tied up.' He paused. 'And it noted that the marks went all the way round, indicating that the wrists and ankles may not have been bound together, although not ruling out the possibility that there might have been a final layer of rope or cord over the top.
'In other words,' he concluded, 'Sarah couldn't say whether they were tied together or not.'
'Right. Ten out of ten; damn near word perfect. Now; leave the question of identification to one side for the moment, add your alien pube to the situation and try this. A sex game: our victim was into bondage. He liked it upside down, the woman in control, not him. So he lets himself be tied to the bed posts and be fucked ... and then it all goes very sadly wrong.'
Dan Pringle's expressive face wrinkled; he scratched his heavy moustache. 'So are you saying he was killed by a woman?'
'I'm saying he could have been, not that he was. I don't know how the other half lives; maybe the victim was gay. Or maybe he was straight and it was a set-up; she jumped off and in came a squad of guys with big hammers.'
'Not hammers, not according to the report.'
'Okay then, baton-like instruments, if you want me to quote verbatim. Terminal, whatever they were.'
'What's the time?' Skinner asked suddenly, glancing at his watch to answer his own question. 'Eight twenty-five. Late enough to try the Diddler's office. They do business in Europe, so the switchboard's always open at eight. His secretary could be in by now ... and so, of course, could he.'
'What's his firm called?'
'Daybelge Fund Managers.' He picked up Yellow Pages from Pringle's desk. 'I can never remember the damn number. Ah here it is.' He picked up the direct line telephone, punched in seven digits, and waited.
'Daybelge; how can I help you?' The telephonist's voice had the tone of a bell.
'Is Mr Shearer in?'
'No sir.'
'Janine Bryant?'
'Yes, sir. Who shall I say is calling?'
'Mr Skinner, a friend of Mr Shearer.'
He waited again, until a new voice came on line. 'Good morning, Mr Skinner.'
The DCC had spoken to Janine Bryant many times, and had met her once when he had given the Diddler a lift home from his office on a Thursday evening. She was a clever, confident, assured woman in her late thirties. He had never heard her sound remotely apprehensive before, and so when she spoke, it was as if a cold fist had punched him in the stomach.
'Where's the Diddler, Janine?' he asked, quietly.
'I don't know, Mr Skinner. I was afraid that you did and that you were going to tell me. He hasn't been in the office since last Friday; but he didn't warn me he was going away or anything. I've had to ask other partners to take over his meetings all this week.'
'Have you called Mrs Shearer in France?'
'I didn't like to do that.'
'Why not?'
He sensed her hesitation. 'I hardly like to say this, even to you, but I have a feeling that he might be with a girlfriend.' 'What makes you think that?'
'I can't put my finger on it; it's just that last week there was a spring in his step, one that I've seen in the past, one that's usually been associated with a discreet adventure. With Mrs Shearer and Victoria leaving for France last Friday morning ... well, I have a suspicion.'
'Is that why you didn't raise the alarm?'
'No,' said the secretary, 'not at all. Mr Skinner,' she continued, 'Daybeige is a partnership, but Mr Shearer is very much the senior partner. He takes all the strategic investment decisions; the others implement them and report to him. We have some extremely important clients and if word got around the market that he was missing, I hate to think of the consequences for the firm.
'I discussed the situation with the others on Wednesday, and we agreed that we would do nothing and say nothing, but wait for him to surface.'
Skinner sighed. 'I fear that he may have surfaced already, Janine. Have you read about the unidentified man who was fished out of the Water of Leith last Saturday?'
She gasped, 'Yes,' she replied in a trembling whisper.
'There were terrible facial injuries, but in the circumstances ... it could be the Diddler. Do you know who his doctor is?'
'He never goes to one, Mr Skinner. He's in perfect health. He has an annual check-up at the Murray field, just to be sure ... his MOT, he calls it and he always passes with flying colours.'
'Would they have a note of his blood group?'
'They have better than that. They have s
ome of his blood. Mr Shearer has a rare blood type, so he has the hospital take a pint every six months and store it, just in case they ever have to operate on him.'
Skinner nodded to Pringle, who was standing beside him, hanging on to one side of the conversation. 'That's good,' he told the secretary. 'We'll get an identification from that; one way or another.
'Now,' he continued, 'do you know where Graham, the son, is?'
'He's in Australia. He's spending the university vacation in Sydney working with a firm with whom Daybelge has a link. Mr Shearer arranged it for him.'
'Damn. I'd have liked him here for his mother, if it comes to that.'
'I have a number where you can reach him. Hold on.' He waited while she looked it out, then noted it down as she read.
'One last thing, Janine. If the Diddler was up to his old tricks and was shacked up somewhere, do you have any idea at all where that might have been.'
'No,' she replied. 'Unless ... unless he used Graham's place. That would have been empty.'
'What's that?'
'It's a cottage. Mr Shearer bought it but the mortgage is in Graham's name. It's down in Coltbridge. I don't have the address, but I know that it...' She stopped in mid-sentence.
'You don't need to tell me,' Skinner said. 'It backs right on to the Water of Leith.' 'Yes.'
'Ahh, that's it,' the DCC hissed. 'Thanks, Janine. I'm really sorry. Look this has got to stay secret, even from the partners, until we've confirmed the identification by DNA comparison, and until Edith has been told. My colleague Dan Pringle will keep you informed of what's happening.
'So Daybelge can arrange damage control, we'll tell you before we make any announcement. That will not happen before Edith and Victoria are back in Scotland, or before Edith has spoken to Graham and he's on his way back home.'
'I understand.' She sounded under control.
'Good. You'd better give me your home phone number.' Again, he noted as she dictated.
'Thanks. So long, and again ... I'm sorry.'
Thursday legends - Skinner 10 Page 18