He didn’t know what he could do about that to redress the balance. But for now, he had other friends who needed him. Least he could do was be there for them. He glanced towards the front door, then dialled Susie’s number.
The clock was ticking. Time to fill her in.
47
Mr James placed the phone on his desk gently, deliberately, focusing on his breathing. He tried not to think of the crunching sound it would make if he threw it at the pine floor or the toughened safety glass that looked out onto a dull grey sky. Instead, he paused and considered his options.
The call from Vic had been brief, littered with expletives and vows to ensure Doug McGregor would become intimately acquainted with the feeling of holding his internal organs in his own hands. He had, apparently, been scooped up at the airport by MacFarlane’s men then driven to the hospital. It was irritating but unsurprising to learn that he had spotted Vic when he left the hospital and given him the slip – Vic was nothing if not dependable in his stupidity and inability to stay out of sight.
And now, just to top everything off, Vic had arrived in time to see Dessie Banks himself leaving McGregor’s flat. So he had called to give an update and ask what to do next. Which, amongst the growing fuck-up this was becoming, offered a ray of light for Mr James. At least Vic was following orders. The situation had changed and he had checked in before taking action. Hopeful.
James stepped to the window and looked out. That McGregor had been taken to see MacFarlane was predictable, but the addition of Banks was a problem. He had acted against MacFarlane to stop him poking around Banks and Redmonds, and yet now Banks was visiting McGregor.
What had they discussed? Had Banks attacked him? Was McGregor now lying in his flat, lifeless? It was a pleasant thought, but James was forced to rule it out. If Banks wanted McGregor dealt with, he would have sent one or two of his men to deal with him, not visited the little shit personally. So he had gone there with something else in mind.
What?
The only possible conclusion, he was forced to admit, was that Banks had gone to McGregor because of what happened to MacFarlane. And he had either told him what Redmonds was doing at the Rest, or warned him to back the fuck off. And while Mr James hoped for one, he knew to prepare for the other.
He forced himself to see it as just another problem, ignoring the growing itch of frustration, that maddening, bone-deep ache that nothing would reach or soothe. If Banks had told McGregor about Redmonds, even if it was only a piece of it, then the missing key was the least of his problems. The risk of exposure was too great, not just for him, but for all those involved.
A small bell went off, a reminder to James and his colleagues that they were needed elsewhere. From the corridor outside he heard the clatter of feet on wooden floors, the squeal of doors opening, the low chatter that always came from a group of people moving together in one direction.
Cattle. All of them.
He sat at his desk, tuning out the noise, thinking. Considering the variables, the possibilities, the solutions. He saw it all as a chessboard, the pieces his to move and control. McGregor. Banks. MacFarlane. Vic. Mark…
Mark.
He stopped. Considered. Took the idea and looked at it from all angles, testing it for flaws. Felt himself smile as he found none.
Yes, Mark. Mark was the key to this. Now that he had received his message and understood the consequences of failure, he would do what James asked. Quickly. Efficiently. The only loose end remaining would be McGregor. He sighed, imagining the sharp snap of the reporter’s fingers as he broke them one at a time, the meaty resistance of his eyeballs as he pushed his thumbs deep into the eye sockets, gouging, rupturing, the ruined eyes eventually running down his cheeks like raw egg yolks as he screamed in blind agony. The thought gave him a thrill of pleasure, tinged with the disappointment of knowing that the circumstances wouldn’t afford him the opportunity to make it a reality.
He pushed the thought aside, focused on the task in hand. First, he would send a message to the group, advising them to stay away for the moment. Then he would call Mark and outline what he needed him to do. Finally, he would let Vic loose on Doug McGregor.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he would ask for a souvenir. Nothing flashy or ostentatious. Nothing that would attract attention, something that could be easily hidden. An ear, perhaps. Or a finger.
Or, even better, he thought, he would ask Vic to bring him the annoying little cunt’s tongue.
48
Mark paced around the flat, panic squeezing his chest like a band of steel, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to act. He walked through to his office, stared at the computer, swore, then rushed back through to the living room, felt his eyes bulge as he tried to see everything at once, adrenalin amplifying the scene, making edges sharper, shadows deeper, colours gaudy and overbright.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered, his voice a tremor on the verge of tears.
The call had come five minutes ago. At first he thought it was Mr James calling back with a reminder for him, some detail he had failed to emphasise, but the reality was worse. Much worse. The caller was a police officer named DC Eddie King who “wanted to talk to him about his work with Brian Coulter at the Docking Station.”
When he heard the words, Mark had had to dig his fingernails into his palm to stay calm.
“I tried to call you at your office,” King had continued, his voice a study of apologetic civility, “but they told me you were working from home today and gave me your number. Would it be possible for me to nip round and have a chat?”
“Why yes, of course,” Mark said, his voice sounding alien to his ears, as though he was listening to a playback of the conversation rather than participating in it. “But can you give me an hour or so first? I am actually working from home, rather than flopped in front of the TV, and I’ve got a project I’ve really got to finish up. Would that be okay?”
King laughed down the phone, the sound like grinding glass to Mark’s jumbled, frantic thoughts. “No problem at all,” he said. “Would half three work for you?”
“Ideal,” Mark said, his lips numb. He gave King his address then hung up, dropping the phone as if it was burning hot.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He moved back through to the office/bedroom, looked at the computer set-up in front of him. It seemed to glare back at him like an accusation.
It had been such a simple plan at the time. One of the server blades had developed a fault, and it was quicker and easier to change the whole thing rather than try to identify the problem and fix it. But it was 11pm at night and besides, the local PC World was hardly likely to have what he needed: a top-end replacement with a five-figure price tag. Luckily enough, he knew a man who did.
Mark knew Brian from his days at the Docking Station, the pair quickly bonding over their love of online gaming, IT and design. Over time, they had found they shared other passions as well. Passions that, ultimately, got Brian killed and left Mark in the shit that he was in now.
Brian took one of the servers from the Docking Station and brought it round to the flat. They had it installed in less than an hour, Brian doing a quick check that everything was running as it should before declaring all was well.
And it would have been, Mark realised, if they’d left it there. But somewhere in the night, fuelled perhaps by too much Jack Daniels and too many episodes of Breaking Bad, they had decided they would be clever. They would go back to the Docking Station, mess the place up a little, make it look like the server was stolen, along with a couple of older laptops and some other crap that Brian had been meaning to upgrade anyway. That way, he could claim the insurance, replace everything and get paid twice – once from Mark’s clients and once from his insurer.
Everybody wins, right?
Mark glared at the server as it hummed away in the corner of the room. Would King w
ant to look around the place? Could he? Was he just here to talk to Mark about his work with Brian, or did he know more?
Mark froze, a sudden realisation making sweat spring out on his skin. Was this a coincidence? From what James had said, Brian had been killed as a message, a warning to ensure Mark made no further mistakes. But was it more than that? Was he now cleaning house, making sure every possible link back to him and the other clients was being closed off? Was Brian killed as part of that agenda? Was that why he had called, with very specific instructions, just before the police? Was that why the police were coming? Was he setting Mark up?
Mark shook his head. No. That didn’t make sense. If James was setting him up, the last thing he would want was police involvement. No, he would deal with him personally. Finally.
Just like Brian had been dealt with.
Mark was vaguely aware of the tears beginning to streak his cheeks. His breath was becoming more shallow and frantic, and he recognised the warning signs of an impending panic attack. He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out.
Calmness crept through him slowly, cooling, comforting. He opened his eyes and looked again at the computer. Thought back to the episode of Game of Thrones he had been watching when James had called three nights ago and started this nightmare. The character impaled on a sword, mouth frozen on the screen in a scream of agony.
Mark wasn’t impaled yet. And while he didn’t have a sword, he did have a blade. And with it, he could perhaps find a way out of this. He glanced at the clock, realised he had just over forty minutes until King arrived. Time enough to put Mr James’ plan in action. And time enough to act on one of his own.
Mark sat at the computer and began working, relief flooding through him as, once again, the world drained away, replaced by the single point of focus that the monitor provided. His typing, at first tentative, became faster, more fluid as he lost himself in the work. He had time. He would do as Mr James asked. And prepare a small surprise for him too.
After all, Brian hadn’t been the only one who knew a thing or two about insurance.
49
After getting the call from Doug, Susie had sent Eddie to chase up the lead with Mark Hayes then headed for Musselburgh. She pulled into a space up the road from Doug’s flat, not wanting to waste time searching for a non-existent space any closer.
She killed the engine and sat thinking in the car. He hadn’t said anything on the phone, and her mind was churning almost as badly as her stomach. What had he found? Were there other pictures of her? Had Doug kept his promise and not looked at the image again, or had he leered at it with Colin and Hal? Christ, what had they thought when they saw the image? She felt the heat rise in her cheeks again, the hot itch of her stress rash as it flushed across her chest and crawled up her neck.
She slammed the palm of her hand onto the steering wheel, seizing the sudden anger and holding onto it. Redmonds. The fucking bastard. He had used her in every way, made her a pariah and, worse, a victim. He got what he wanted: a feeble orgasm and a picture to remember her by. What did she get? Shame, regret and the worst shag of her life. She felt cold revulsion as she remembered kissing him, his touch as he grabbed impatiently for her breasts, tried to choke her with his tongue.
Bastard. Fucking bastard. Whoever had killed him, they hadn’t done it slowly enough.
Susie got out of the car, seized by the impulse to move. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Doug again, but it was better than sitting there and remembering. She hurried along the pavement, her attention focused on the tenement door as she fought to compose herself, determined not to show him how rattled she was. She didn’t notice the man walking towards her until it was almost too late – he took a step to the side and mumbled an apology as she marched up the road.
After Doug buzzed her in, she took the steps up to his flat two at a time, and was surprised the door wasn’t sitting open as usual for her. She heard Doug moving behind the door, something being dragged, then the thunk and jingle of the door being unlocked and the chain being pulled back. Whatever was going on, he wasn’t taking any chances.
He swung the door open, appearing behind it. His face was just twitching into the start of a nervous, welcoming smile, and then it dissolved into a look of utter horror. She started forward, the question already forming on her lips.
And then, suddenly, she was flying. Propelled forward with brutal force as someone shoved her from the side and towards the door. Pain exploded in her shoulder as she crashed into the door and collapsed in a heap in Doug’s hallway. She tried to get up, was stopped by a sudden kick in her side that sent dark stars of agony flashing across her field of vision. She screwed her eyes shut, tried to focus past the pain.
Get up, her mind screamed. Get the fuck up!
“Stay the fuck down, ya wee bitch,” a vaguely familiar voice growled. “Ah swear I’ll fuckin gut ye after ah finish with this wee cunt…”
She rolled onto her back, heard Doug grunt and cry out as he tackled her attacker and was thrown off. She felt the shudder as he banged off the hallway wall, yelping in pain. Was aware of their attacker’s breathing, harsh and ragged, like a winded bull looking for one last victim before it met the matador’s sword.
Victim, she thought, just another victim. Be easy to lie and take it, wouldn’t it? Just lie for a minute, roll over. Let them win. At least the pain would stop.
Susie scrabbled for the thought, grabbed it. Victim. She had been made a victim. By Redmonds and his perverted desires. She had rolled over for him, and look where it got her. She was fucked if she would be made a victim again.
She forced her eyes open, pushed past the agony that pulsed in her side. Saw a short, stocky man hunched over Doug, slamming his head back into the hallway wall.
“Where is it, ya wee fuck?” he snarled. “Gimmie it and I’ll no’ fuck you up too badly.”
Doug’s head lolled on his neck, drooping down to his shoulder. Blood oozed from his nose. The bastard who had him was so focused on getting what he wanted that he didn’t realise he’d knocked Doug stupid by slamming him into the wall.
Which gave Susie a chance. Just one. She pushed herself back, getting more distance between her and their attacker, then staggered to her feet. “Get…” She gasped, the words unwilling to come out as her lungs still tried to fill themselves. “Get off him. Now.”
The stocky man whirled round, as though he had forgotten Susie was there. “I told you to stay down, ya fuckin hoor,” he said, twisting his hands tighter into Doug’s shirt. “Now dae as yer fucking telt, or ah swear I’ll…”
Susie surged forward, delivering a quick, savage jab to his jaw. The snap of his teeth clattering together was satisfyingly loud and he staggered back, releasing his grip on Doug, who slid down the wall.
“You fucking bitch!” he barked, hand wiping at the blood that was flowing from his bottom lip. “I’m gonna fucking kill you for that.”
“Aye, Vic,” Susie said, only recognising him when she spoke his name. “Let’s see if you are.”
He bellowed and charged forward, grasping wildly for her. Susie darted to the side, dodging him. She glanced around, noticed her bag on the floor. If she could get to that, she could get her CS spray, empty the can into the fucker’s eyes. She looked away from the bag and back to Vic. Realised she didn’t have time – and that somewhere deep down, some feral, hate-fuelled part of her didn’t want to.
He lunged for her again, hands splayed as he scrabbled for a grip on her. Susie sidestepped, pulling her fists into the defensive position she had practised so often in the gym.
Vic’s face contorted into a smile, uneven teeth framed by the blood from his lip. “Aye, very fucking funny, Rocky,” he hissed.
The knife appeared like a conjurer’s trick, winking and glittering, and Susie backed off before McBride sprang again. Susie turned to the side, grabbing for his for
earm and trying to break his grip on the knife. No use, it was like grabbing a knot of steel cable. She shifted her weight, trying to use Vic’s momentum against him, get him off balance. She felt his breath, hot and sour, on her cheek as she twisted him around her hip, trying to get him into a fall. He staggered, grunted, but was too heavy for her to pivot him. He flailed out with his free hand, grabbed her hair. She screamed as he tightened his grip, pain flaring in her scalp as he pulled her back into him. She focused on her grip on his forearm, digging her fingers in as hard as she could. He yanked her head back, hard, her eyes dragged to the ceiling even as she felt him trying to raise the arm holding the knife.
“I’m gonna fucking gut you,” he hissed, the arm rising.
Frantic, Susie let her knees buckle. The pain in her scalp was excruciating, but she felt Vic stagger and lose his balance. She drove her head back as hard as she could, hearing a wet crunch as she forced his own hand into his face.
She felt the grip on the knife ease and punched his wrist as hard as she could. Vic yelped and the knife clattered to the floor, skittering away across the polished wood.
He let go of her, taking a faltering step back. His hands were clamped to his face, blood oozing between the fingers, eyes glittering malevolently like twin pits of hate.
“Fugging cunt!” he spat. He took a half-step forward then stopped, eyes darting about. Susie saw the calculation in his eyes and he stepped back into the stairwell and bolted down the stairs. She also started down the stairs then froze, remembering Doug. She heard the tenement door banging open as she retreated back into the flat.
Doug was sliding himself up the wall, face pale and eyes huge. He was cradling his left arm against his chest, dabbing at his nose with his right.
“You alright?” she asked, as she helped him to his feet.
He smiled weakly. “Yeah, fine. I love having house guests. You okay?”
She nodded then reached into her pocket for her phone.
All the Devils Page 20