by Tony Black
Tierney put the money back in the envelope. ‘We agreed more.’
‘Are you complaining?’ He approached the pair again.
Vee spoke: ‘We agreed.’
‘Well, if you’ve got a better offer, I can always take the money back.’ McArdle reached out for the envelope. Vee snatched it and rose. She stared at McArdle; he could see the veins pulsing in her neck. ‘Nah, didn’t think you had,’ he said.
McArdle turned for the door. As he went, Tierney and Vee held the envelope between them and watched him.
Tierney spoke: ‘That’s us quits.’
McArdle raised a hand above his head.
‘We’re quits!’ shouted Vee.
McArdle turned, stared at them. ‘If you say so.’ He took two steps forward, locked his fingers briefly, then stretched his arms, palms out towards them. ‘What a way to settle your debts… You people disgust me.’
He unlocked his fingers and spat at them.
Tierney and Vee didn’t move.
Chapter 29
Barry tierney leaned into the bar, raised himself on the little brass rail that skirted its base. The barmen were ignoring him.
‘Prick’s not wanting to serve us, Vee.’
Vee twiddled the black straw in her vodka and Coke. She looked uncomfortable in the George Street style-bar, twitching and jerking at her new blouse.
This part of town was for people with money to spend, lots of money. It was for the bank workers and the young professionals, thought Tierney. They didn’t want him there; they hated him and he hated them back.
‘Hey, you going to serve me?’ he shouted.
One barman was polishing a glass, looked over to Tierney and sighed. The action sparked something in the junkie. He wanted to take the glass from the barman’s hand and thrust it in his face. The bastard, the cheeky bastard looking down his nose at me, he thought.
‘Look at this, Vee… He’s talking to his boss.’
Vee put down her glass, slapped the bar. ‘Hey, you serving here?’
The bar staff looked around them, approached Vee and Tierney. ‘If you don’t keep the noise down, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Eh, what you on about?’ said Tierney. ‘I’m just trying to get a few drinks in here.’
The barman who had been polishing the glass rolled eyes, said, ‘I think, perhaps, you’ve had enough, sir.’
‘Oh do you, perhaps?’ Tierney spat out the last word. Some flecks of spittle landed on the barman’s black waistcoat.
‘Right, that’s it. Out!’ The other one pushed forward. He slid past the cappuccino machine and opened up the bar counter. He stood hands on hips as he called over the door stewards.
‘Fuck this,’ said Tierney. He launched himself at the man behind the bar. He could feel himself being pulled back as he lunged and immediately realised the door steward had caught a hold of him.
‘Right, don’t make this hard on yourself.’ He sounded Australian, or South African; he was foreign.
‘Get your hands off me, you’re not even Scottish… Get back to your own fucking country.’
Vee threw back the last of her vodka and Coke and joined the melee. She smashed the glass over the steward’s head and screamed, ‘Leave him, you bastard!’
Shrieks went up around the bar. Chairs scraped on the floor as people moved away.
‘Get them out! Get them out!’ shouted the manager.
People ran to left and right, headed for the edges of the room to be free of the scene. A group of reinforcements — more stewards — arrived from the front door and Tierney and Vee were bundled onto the pavement. Tierney struggled with the men in black jackets, lashed out and kicked. As Vee was dragged she lost one of her new shoes and removed the other to hit at her attackers.
‘Fuck off… Bastards!’
When they got them far enough from the bar, the stewards dropped them on the ground and backed off. They brushed down their jackets as they went.
Tierney ranted, ‘You’re fucking dead, you are!’
‘Calm down, just calm down,’ said the biggest of them. ‘We’ve called the police and they’re on their way.’
Tierney got up, jutted his head at him. ‘You’re dead! Do you know who I am? Barry Tierney, ask about town. I’ll be back to do you in.’
Vee swung her bag as the men retreated indoors, shaking their heads. ‘You’ve lost it, love,’ said one of them.
‘Let the cops deal with them,’ said another.
Tierney watched them go inside. The blood rushed in his veins. He felt his adrenaline spike and looked around for something to throw at the window. There was nothing, no brick or an ashtray even. He scoped about — further up the street there was a chrome stanchion, outside the next bar. He ran over and unhooked the red cord. The stanchion was heavy; he struggled with it down the street but somehow managed to get it onto his shoulder.
‘Vee, get ready to run. I’ll show those bastards.’
Tierney edged closer to the window and started to spin with the stanchion in his arms. When he felt he had enough momentum he released his grip. The noise from the smashing window was like the one o’clock gun. Tierney and Vee ran off, laughing and jeering.
The pair made for Hanover Street and kept going until they were completely out of breath.
‘Did you see their faces?’ said Tierney.
Vee struggled to stay upright, gasped. ‘Yeah… Total fucking idiots. You showed them, Barry.’
‘I showed them.’ Tierney felt proud of himself; no one was going to talk to him like that. It was a great feeling to have a few quid in your pocket. He didn’t want to think about how he’d come by it, but that didn’t matter now. He was free of his debts to the Deil, he’d scored enough to see him through the weeks ahead and he had a new set of clothes and more money in his pocket to spend.
He stepped into the road and flagged a black cab. ‘Come on.’
‘Where to?’
‘The night is young, so it is.’
Vee giggled as she was dragged into the cab. Tierney gave the driver the name of another bar — he couldn’t sober up. Not now. As he sat in the back of the cab his mind returned to the events of the last few days and he felt his bolster subside.
‘What is it?’ said Vee.
‘Nothing.’
She knew well what it was, he thought. As he looked at her, eyes slow-blinking, out of it as ever, he knew she was going to be a constant reminder to him. He looked away, out to the road, the hum of street lights and the blur of shopfronts and takeaways on Broughton Street. He felt sick — not physically, deeper than that. He felt sick in his soul.
‘Barry, what the fuck’s up now?’ said Vee.
‘Shut it,’ he snapped.
The driver’s eyes appeared in the rear-view mirror. Tierney flagged him down. ‘It’s okay, mate. No bother here.’
Vee tugged at his arm. ‘You’ve gone all moody again.’
‘I told you to shut it.’
The driver was getting anxious, kept looking back.
Vee spat at him, ‘You’re not telling me to-’
He snapped, grabbed her head in his hands and screamed in her face, ‘I told you, shut it. I don’t want to hear your fucking voice again.’
The cab screeched to a halt. ‘That’s it!’ shouted the driver.
Tierney watched the cabbie open his door and walk round to his side of the street. He pulled the handle and opened up. ‘You can walk from here.’
Tierney squeezed Vee’s head in his hands, then banged it off the seat. ‘That was your fucking fault. It’s always your fault!’
As he got out he eyeballed the cabbie, who reached behind him and helped Vee to her feet. ‘Hey, she can walk herself…’ Tierney watched the cab driver help Vee and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He let out a fist that connected with the back of the man’s head and he fell to the ground. Where he lay Tierney started to kick him; when he tired of kicking he started to stamp on his head. Soon he was too exh
austed to continue, panting and wheezing, his chest aching.
When Vee got out of the car she staggered over the cabbie. He spluttered blood as he tried to speak, raised a hand.
Vee looked at Barry and then she brought her foot down on the cab driver’s face. There was an audible crunch, the breaking of bone, and she laughed out.
Barry watched her for a moment. She was lining up another blow, balancing herself by holding the taxi’s roof to give her more purchase. She looked enraged. Barry wondered why.
‘Vee, pack it in.’
She didn’t listen as she tried to drive her heel into the cabbie’s face.
‘Vee… leave it,’ Barry roared, but the words had no effect.
A crowd had started to gather, a few muttering and gesturing to others to intervene.
Barry knew it was time to move on. He grabbed Vee’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Go where?’
‘Away… away from here.’
Chapter 30
The first thing that struck DI Rob Brennan about the inside of Carly Donald’s room was how unremarkable it was. He didn’t know what he had expected to find in there but the familiarity of the place seemed to dig at his heart. On the small single bed there was a pink bedspread that was covered in little mauve flowers; it looked like something Sophie would have once picked out, before she had entered the phase where she wanted everything to be black. Over the window was a draw-blind with butterflies on the edges and a long pull tassel. Everything seemed so normal, so simple, almost like a film set or from a TV show for teenage girls.
Brennan eased himself in. The place smelled of lavender and vanilla. He wondered if it was a trait of every girl to have a room smelling just like the first floor of Jenners. He eased up to her desk. There was a red organiser for pens and pencils; she had tied red elastic bands — like the ones the postman drops — into a little ball. Brennan picked up the ball, rolled it in his palm and started to squeeze it. The item was a connection to Carly and he felt some strange power holding it.
‘Okay, Carly… What am I looking for?’
Brennan opened a drawer. There was some writing paper in there, pink again, and more pens, felt-tips. He removed the cap from one — it had dried out; the entire collection was probably left over from when she was younger. Sixteen was too old for colouring in.
There was nothing else that caught Brennan’s attention on the desk. He closed the drawer and moved to the wardrobe. A tall, freestanding pine box that looked like flat-pack but was probably more substantial. He opened up and immediately smelled a stronger waft of perfume. It was a different smell, not rose — apples, maybe. He liked it. The first thing that caught Brennan’s attention in the wardrobe was a school blazer. He took it out. The jacket was well kept; it had been brushed regularly and looked in good shape. The braid on the sleeves was yellow and bright. It struck him that dressing children in uniforms was a strange thing to be doing at this stage of human development. It was almost tribal. In Edinburgh, the rich kids stood out a mile in their uniforms, but then, that was the idea, wasn’t it? When you were paying?25,000 a year for your kid’s education, you wanted it to be as conspicuous as the Bentley Continental you drove to work.
Brennan looked further into the wardrobe. A lot of jeans. Simple tops, spots and prints. There were some boots beneath the clothes, grey suede. Brennan thought they were called pixie boots but he was no good with fashion. There were some trainers too, sports socks rolled into a ball and a hockey stick propped against the back. He closed the door.
The DI returned to the bed, sat. He hadn’t found anything worthwhile, but he had found something of Carly. The room had presence, she had put her stamp on it and Brennan drew on that, took it in. She may not have been there in person but Carly had made an indelible impression on him. He felt an attachment now; he understood more about her. She seemed a middle-of-the-road type; some might say plain. Her dress sense was unimaginative, but then she was only sixteen. Had she had time yet to fully form her personality, develop a style of her own?
On a whim, Brennan looked under the bed. There were some magazines, Heat, OK! Closer, and some books on childbirth. He rubbed the cover of one — the pages were dog-eared. There were items in the book ringed in red marker pen. Baby chairs and prams, clothing. Was this the action of a girl who was going to see her child adopted? Carly had wanted to keep the baby, he sensed it, knew it. Brennan replaced the magazines and books, got off the bed and smoothed down the bedspread.
He stood for a moment, stared at the posters on the walls. One of them was a Pop Idol winner, or was it X Factor? He didn’t know, but he recognised her face — Leona something? There was another larger poster of a boy band. Brennan didn’t know who they were — he thought they looked like tossers, though. All the posing and gesturing made him wonder what was going on in their heads. He bounced the elastic-band ball off the poster, said, ‘Come on, Carly, give me a sign here.’
Nothing came.
He stood for a moment longer, turned, went to place the ball on the desk but something stopped him. He felt some kind of comfort holding it, a connection he didn’t want to lose. Brennan held the ball in his hand for a moment longer, stared at it as if there was a message inside. He’d felt this before, a strange channelling from artefacts of the dead, but he always dismissed it as the mind playing tricks. He smiled, shook his head, then put the little ball back on the desk and headed downstairs.
In the kitchen McGuire and Napier were talking over cups of tea. There was no sign of Peter Sproul. When Brennan came in their chat ceased at once.
‘Hello, boss.’
Brennan nodded.
‘Anything?’
A shake of the head. ‘How far is this Thompson girl’s house?’
Napier put down his cup. ‘Just a minute or two away.’ He twisted his neck, raised a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Round that way.’
Brennan fastened his jacket. ‘Finish your tea. I’ll wait in the car.’
McGuire rose and took his cup to the sink. Napier followed him.
In the car Brennan drummed fingers on the dash, held his thoughts in check. There was a call he had to make. He didn’t want to speak to his wife but Sophie was on his mind now. He needed to know she was okay, that she had come home and her antics had all been another attention-seeking prank. He knew his daughter was too sensible to get mixed up in anything that would bring real worry to her parents — she’d been well briefed on the subject — but Brennan couldn’t help his concern surfacing.
He dialled home.
Ringing.
An answer, ‘Hello.’
‘Joyce… it’s me.’
‘Yes.’ Her tone was frosty. Had she kept the mood going all this time? he wondered.
‘Did you get hold of Sophie?’
A sigh. ‘Where’s this sudden concern came from?’
Brennan snapped, ‘Stop messing about, Joyce!’ He had just sat in a murdered schoolgirl’s bedroom and was in no mood to joust with his wife. ‘Is she home or not?’
Joyce’s voice lowered: ‘Yes. She’s home. You can go back to your job now with a clear conscience.’
Brennan hung up. As he did so McGuire and Napier returned, got in the car.
‘Okay, sir… Ready to roll,’ said McGuire.
‘This Sproul character, what’s his story?’ said Brennan.
McGuire took out his notebook. ‘He’s a kind of factotum.’
Brennan shook his head at the DC’s pretentiousness. ‘An odd-job man.’
‘Yes, sir. Got a background in the trades, moved about a bit. Plenty of praise for the minister — says he gave him a job when he was at a low ebb… Sounded grateful.’
‘What kind of a low ebb?’
McGuire put his pencil in the corner of his mouth. ‘Erm, he didn’t really say… Unemployment, I think.’
Brennan turned round in his seat, put fierce eyes on McGuire. ‘Run him through the system.’ He turned round again, addressed Napier: ‘And you can k
eep tabs on him.’
Napier nodded. ‘Okay, sure. He’s sound though, Pete — plays in the dominoes league down the Lion.’
Brennan snapped, ‘I don’t give a shit if he helps old ladies across the road or rescues kittens. I don’t like the bloody look of him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Napier started the engine, pulled out. In a few minutes they had arrived outside a semi-detached house. It looked to have been built in the seventies — utilitarian architecture for families on budgets. The officers assessed it and then got out the car, walked up the drive. A dog barked inside as Brennan rang the bell. It sounded like a small dog, pitching itself above its size. Napier eased himself to the rear of the group, stepped back.
As the door opened a small white flash dashed past them, a Jack Russell ran into the garden, barking. The animal seemed to have a routine, turning left then right, before circling the group entirely.
‘Penny, get in!’ A small woman in a blue fleece and wellington boots greeted them: ‘Hello, you must be… the police.’
Brennan introduced himself, produced his warrant card. ‘I hope this is a good time to call.’
The woman had very red cheeks. As the dog rushed in at their feet she tilted her head and placed a hand on her hip; she gesticulated with the other hand as she spoke. ‘I just don’t know what the world’s coming to… I really don’t, when something like this happens.’
Brennan looked down the hallway behind her. He saw a thin girl with dark hair held back by a white Alice band. She watched the officers then moved out of their line of vision.
Mrs Thompson continued, ‘Carly and Lynne were like that’ — she crossed her fingers over. ‘Our Lynne’s lost without her. I can’t hardly get her to eat or anything. It’s terrible, just terrible.’ She brought her arms together, crossed them over her chest and touched one of her shoulders. ‘That poor girl, such a good family too… They must be devastated.’
Brennan spoke: ‘Do you think Lynne would be up to talking to us?’
She turned, eyes widening. ‘Oh, yes. Of course… Come through. Can I get you some tea or coffee?’