Somewhere, on the street above, a lorry went past, rumbling its way across the bridge as Mary Brennan chewed at her ragged nails. Then a train – rattling the rails above us, sending down a smear of grit and dust to clatter against the church roof. The five carriages taking forever to pass as it made its way south towards the station.
I pulled out the wodge of LIRU business cards from my pocket and slipped one free. ‘If you remember anything else, anything at all, give me a call.’
She took the small rectangle of card and nodded. Biting her bottom lip. Blinking. Breath shuddering.
‘I’m so, so sorry.’ Alice put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘I know you think nobody cares, but we understand, we really do.’
She shook the hand off. Scrubbed away the tears. ‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t understand, I mean, how could I – I can empathise, but no one can understand unless they’ve been through something as horrific as that, but Ash has.’ Alice pointed at me. ‘He knows what it’s like.’
‘Alice, don’t.’ Not this. Not now. And certainly not today.
‘His daughter was taken by a man who tortured and killed her. It might feel like the police don’t care, but I promise you, he really, really does.’
The old fire ignited behind my eyes, reached its burning talons deep into my guts. ‘I said, that’s enough!’
Mary stared at me with hungry eyes. ‘Your daughter?’
My Rebecca …
And I’m standing in the kitchen, in my crappy dilapidated council house in Kingsmeath, opening those homemade birthday cards with her photograph on them. One every year. The blood and the pain and the horror in her eyes.
I curled my hands into fists, the knuckles white and aching. ‘This isn’t—’
‘So, you see, Ash and I want to help you find out who did this. We want to make sure they’re punished for what happened to Andrew.’
‘Someone killed your daughter?’
‘Enough.’ I backed away from the memorial, into the rain again. Forcing the words through clenched teeth. Jaw throbbing with the pressure. ‘I don’t want to talk about—’
‘Mary?’ It was a man’s voice, slightly high-pitched. A generic Scottish accent that went up at the end. ‘I brought you a cup of tea. Thought you might …’ He couldn’t have been much over five four, with a beer belly that paunched out over the belt of his brown corduroy trousers. A combover that wouldn’t have fooled Stevie Wonder on a dark night. A podgy face having difficulty holding onto the wispy beard he’d inflicted upon it. His eyes went wide behind his glasses as he saw me. ‘I …’ A mug with, ‘PRAISE THE LORD FOR TEA & BICCIES!’ on it trembled in his hand, steaming beige liquid slopping out to splash against the leg of his cords – darkening the fabric, as if he’d wet himself.
Why did he look so familiar …?
Of course: Steven Kirk.
The same Steven Kirk that swore blind he’d been taking care of his dying mother when all those wee boys were abducted and killed. And he just happened to be at the same church as Andrew Brennan’s mother?
Aye, right.
‘Well, well, well.’ I stepped closer, letting all that pain and anger sizzle in the words: ‘If it isn’t the man we were off to see next. Hello, Steven.’
‘This isn’t … I wasn’t …’ More tea slopped down his front.
‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’
But Kirk was off, the mug flying away to crash against a headstone as he sprinted across the graveyard. Wouldn’t have thought a wee fat man would’ve been able to go that fast.
I lumbered after him, brolly bobbing and weaving – more trouble than it was worth, so I let it fly free. ‘COME BACK HERE, YOU GREASY LITTLE GIT!’ Not so easy, running through the thick grass with a buggered foot. Gritting my teeth. Pushing through the stabbing jerk every time my right shoe touched down.
But worth it, because Steven Kirk deserved everything that was about to happen to him.
He scrambled over the rear wall of the graveyard and out into the chunk of waste ground beneath the railway lines. I bent into it, sped up, slapped one hand down on top of the wall and swung my legs up and over. Landing awkwardly on my right foot – a red-hot crowbar slamming through the flesh to lever the bones apart.
Kirk wasn’t slowing – if anything he was getting faster, accelerating down the slight slope. Increasing the distance between us.
‘COME BACK HERE!’ Finding it harder and harder to run now, every other step a screaming ball of agony.
He was going to get away.
And after this, it was pretty damned unlikely he’d head home and wait for us to show, like a good boy. He’d disappear. Properly this time.
MOVE FASTER!
Push.
Bite down on the pain and sodding run.
A jagged huff-huff-huff noise grew louder behind me, then Alice went past, arms and legs pumping, red feet flashing their white soles as she chased after Steven Kirk. Hood thrown back, curly brown hair streaming out behind her in the rain.
Kirk glanced back over his shoulder – face an unhealthy shade of sweaty puce – then put his head down and his elbows up, really going for it. But Alice was fitter. And faster. Getting closer and closer.
Then she was airborne: a flying tackle that slammed into the middle of Kirk’s back, sending them both crashing to the wet grass at the base of one of the railway pilings. Rolling over and over, limbs sticking out, then curling up as they struggled.
Only when they stopped, it was Kirk who came out on top, straddling Alice, rearing up, one fist curled back and ready to smash down into her face.
Which is when I finally arrived. ‘NO YOU DON’T!’
He barely had time to turn and stare at me before I battered into him, tearing him off her and into the grass again. Cracked the bony ridge of my forearm into his nose. Once. Twice. And three time’s the charm. Putting my weight behind it. Bouncing his head off the ground as blood spattered out into the gloom. Doing it for every little boy and girl he’d hurt. For the people’s children he’d brutalised, and tortured, and killed.
He screamed, so I smashed my elbow into his mouth as well. Did that again too.
Because let’s face it, you have to take the tiny moments of joy when you can get them.
Should castrate the bastard, right here. Stamp on his balls till they burst. See if he still feels like interfering with children after they had to surgically amputate whatever ragged scraps of flesh I left him with down there.
His face got another elbowing, my teeth bared as I broke his. Not even bothering to hold back the laughter. Hard and sharp and loud and—
‘God’s sake, you’ll kill him!’ Alice’s hands grabbed at my arm and collar, hauling me backwards. Off Steven Kirk. Pushing me away. Her face all pinched, eyes shining, nose red, tears on her cheeks. ‘Stop it!’ Then she was on her knees beside him, wiping the blood from his cheeks and chin with a handkerchief. Holding him as he sobbed.
I stepped back, a dull throbbing spreading down my right arm, making the fingers tingle, breath heaving in my chest. ‘I did it … for … He was … trying … to hurt … you.’
Alice glared up at me. ‘We’re meant to help people!’ Then she closed her eyes and turned away. ‘I can’t even look at you.’
Raised voices carried from the church’s front doors, down the nave and over the crossing, but by the time they reached the chancel, Saint Damon’s gothic pillars and grimy tapestries had reduced it to nothing more than angry noises, stripped clean of actual words, leaving only trouble behind.
I leaned forward in my pew, arms resting on the row in front, and nodded at Mary Brennan. ‘Are you OK?’
She blinked back at me. Then stared across the rows of plain wooden benches to a small door set into the far wall. The one Saint Damon’s registered first-aider had taken Steven Kirk through. ‘I don’t understand …’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Steven?’ A frown. ‘Months and
months. He helps clean the church.’
Couldn’t help glancing around at that: the mildewed Bibles; the cobwebbed carvings; the paintings of religious icons thick with dust; the fourteen Stations of the Cross, so filthy you could barely make out the suffering in them. Oh yeah, Steven Kirk was doing a great job.
‘Was that before or after Andrew went missing?’
More blinking. Probably trying to process the implications of that.
‘Steven? But … he’s … his mother’s dying.’
The angry voices echoed away into silence, then the noise of marching feet – getting louder. One set of clacking heels, one set of squeaky damp rubber soles.
Sounded like it was time for my shouting at.
Across the apse, that small door opened and out came the large woman in a pastel-purple cardigan who’d taken Kirk away to fix him up. Her flushed-pink scalp clearly visible through the thinning, lank, grey hair. Kirk scuffed along beside her, holding a wodge of blue paper towels over his nose and mouth. Looking everywhere but at me.
The marching came to a halt and when I turned, there they were: Alice – who also wasn’t looking at me – and an old bloke dressed all in black, except for the flash of white at his throat. Jowls hanging over the lip of his dog collar. A fringe of grey stubble above his pendulous ears. Wire-framed glasses and narrowed baggy eyes. ‘What on God’s earth were you thinking?’ Not a local lad. That flat, back-of-the-throat accent definitely marked him out as Dundonian, no matter how hard he was trying to sound posh. ‘How dare you come into the house of the Lord and assault one of my parishioners!’
Never punched a priest before, but there was a first time for everything.
When I got to my feet, I had nearly a foot on him. Looking down on that grey-fringed bald pate. ‘One: it didn’t happen in the church. And two: I’m not the one putting the people coming to this church at risk.’ I poked a finger into his chest. ‘That’s you.’
Spluttering. Jowls wobbling. ‘I’m calling the police.’
I grabbed a handful of his cassock and spun him around till he was facing Steven Kirk.
‘Unhand me!’
Alice glowered at me. ‘Ash!’
Tough.
‘What’s the matter, didn’t you run a background check on the man you’ve got cleaning this tip?’
It was Kirk’s turn to glower – over the top of his blue paper towels as they slowly turned a dark shade of purple. Voice all muffled and squishy. ‘Yooo brurk mai teefff!’
The priest wriggled free. ‘How dare you behave this way in a—’
‘But then your team has a habit of covering up for paedophiles, doesn’t it? Move them on to a different parish, quash the rumours, silence the victims.’
Those baggy eyes widened as he stared at me, then turned to Kirk. ‘He’s … What’s he talking about, Steven?’
‘It’dss nuuunt mai fowwwt!’
‘Steven Kirk, former physical therapist, convicted in 1998 of making and distributing indecent images of children, abusing eleven minors at Blackwall Hospital, and the abduction and rape of a seven-year-old boy. On the Sex Offenders’ Register for life, aren’t you, Steven?’
And now, everyone was staring at him and his wodge of bloody tissues. Not looking quite so sympathetic any more.
The first-aider stepped away from Kirk, wiping her fingers down the front of her cardigan, as if trying to remove the taint of actually touching him.
‘Hhh azzolded mei! Thigggh isssnuunt mai fowwwt!’
‘I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND!’ Mary Brennan snatched up one of those manky Bibles and hurled it at him. Face contorted and flushed, spittle flying from her curled lips. ‘YOU DIRTY BASTARD!’
He turned and the book bounced off his shoulder, leaves flapping as it fell, like a dying bird.
‘I’M GLAD HE BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!’ She sent another one winging Kirk’s way – it battered off the top of his bowed head – then another. ‘I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!’
He’d have a lot of company.
12
‘Well, that was … unedifying.’ Huntly settled himself down on the bench next to me. Dipped into his inside pocket and came out with a silver hip flask. Unscrewed the top and took a swig. Wiped the neck and proffered it to me. ‘You really are somewhat … volatile today, aren’t you? I mean, even more so than usual.’
High up above, the thick lid of grey had lifted, revealing a cold blue sky with wisps of white, travelling fast. No more rain. The sun was even shining, though none of it made its way down here. A graveyard permanently shrouded in gloom.
Knew how it felt …
Huntly waggled the hip flask.
‘Can’t.’ I pushed it away. ‘Pills.’
‘Ah yes, the dreaded medication.’ He knocked back another swig, then put the flask away again. ‘Alice is talking to your friend, Mr Kirk, but it seems he’s determined to press charges.’
Course he was.
‘Apparently you’ve knocked out three of his teeth, broken his nose, and cost him his volunteer position at the church.’ A frown. ‘Difficult to tell which one hurt him the most, to be honest. Seems Father Lucas isn’t so keen on a convicted sex offender hanging around with the choirboys and youth groups.’
At least that was something.
‘Will you permit me to proffer a tiny morsel of advice, Ash?’ Huntly’s hand settled onto my shoulder. ‘Make yourself scarce. Soon as Bear finds out you’ve battered the living bejesus out of a suspect – no matter how well deserved that battering was – he’s going to be less than amused.’
I leaned forward, put my arms on my knees and groaned. ‘He was here, Bernard. He knew Andrew’s mother.’
‘And now we can’t drag him in and grill him about it, without his lawyer bringing up the aforementioned battering. Which rather undermines our ability to prove he did anything.’
‘Yeah.’ Head down, hands covering my face. Squeezing.
Stupid Ash Henderson.
‘And, as if by magic, here comes a chopper to chop off your head …’ The bench shifted as he got to his feet. ‘Dr McDonald, don’t be too hard on Mr Henderson, he’s—’
‘A BLOODY IDIOT!’
I stayed where I was, face still covered. ‘He was about to punch you in the mouth. Remember that?’
‘YOU COULD’VE KILLED HIM!’ Gravel crunched as she marched away, then back again. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Why does everything have to be—’
‘No!’ I dropped my hands. Stood. ‘You always do this. Every time there’s some poor bastard whose child’s been killed, you point at me.’ Jabbing a thumb at my own chest. ‘Enough!’
Alice set her jaw. ‘You can’t attack every—’
‘Rebecca’s death isn’t some lever you can pull, like it’s a bloody one-armed bandit, to make victims pay out in fucking sympathy tokens! HER DEATH MATTERS!’ Deep breath. I uncurled my fists. The ground beneath my feet a trembling sea of filthy gravel. ‘It matters to me.’
‘Wow …’ Huntly backed off, both hands up. ‘Maybe I should give you two a moment.’
Alice closed her mouth. Bit her bottom lip. Looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’
Yeah, well, sometimes ‘sorry’ didn’t cut it.
‘Come on, Ash, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m really, really sorry …’ Shuffling along beside me as I limped down Denholm Road. ‘Ash, please talk to me.’
No.
Dragged out my phone and called Shifty instead.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
The rain might have stopped, but the drains were still overflowing, the gutters making their own rapids where the water hit logjams of filth and rubbish.
Alice lurched in front of me, walking backwards, trying to make eye contact. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I know Rebecca’s death must be painful, I was only trying to—’
‘DI Morrow?’
‘Shifty? It’s Ash. I need a lift.’
‘Don’t be like that, I’ll drive you wherever you need to go, it’s n
ot a—’
‘Oh, Christ, what have you done now?’
‘It’s important.’
‘Ash, please!’
‘You do realise I’m a detective inspector, right? A detective inspector who’s got a murder investigation on the go. I can’t—’
‘Can you give me a lift, or not?’
A long-suffering sigh. ‘All right, all right.’ Some scrunching came down the line, then a muffled, ‘Rhona? I’ve got to go out for a while. Keep an eye on things, and for God’s sake, don’t let the Chief Super put out any more half-arsed statements.’ Then Shifty was back to full volume again. ‘Where are you?’
Alice tried blocking my path. ‘Don’t do this. I said I’m sorry and I meant it.’
I sidestepped her. ‘Heading down Denholm, I’ll be on Montrose Road, going back towards town.’
‘Ash, please!’ Her voice ringing out behind me as I kept going. ‘Ash?’
‘OK, I’ll be there soon as I can …’
‘Ash! Please, we can talk about this!’
Not this time.
‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Shifty was probably going for casual and nonchalant, but it wasn’t working.
I kept my face turned to the passenger window as the manky pool car headed back across Calderwell Bridge. The traffic had eased up a lot since rush hour, sunlight sparking off Kings River like shards of hot glass. Windy enough out there to whip up white horses as the tide tried to fight against it.
‘OK.’ He pointed at the windscreen as we made landfall on the other side. ‘Can you at least tell me where we’re going?’
‘Steven Kirk’s been hanging round the church that leads onto the waste ground where Andrew Brennan was killed. Has been for months.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake …’ Shifty’s hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles standing out like ball bearings. ‘Blakey interviewed him! No mention of it.’
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