by Tony Black
‘ I’m not prepared to speculate. All I will say is this: if you have any suspicions, however tenuous, you must call the police right away.’
McArdle spat out, lashed at the television. He pushed the off switch and the screen fizzed but it didn’t satisfy him. He swung an arm and brought it from its cradle on the wall. The television smashed on the floor; the noise woke the child.
‘And you can shut the fuck up!’ McArdle turned for the child, roared again: ‘I said shut the fuck up!’
As he went to move forward, Melanie stood in front of him.
‘What’s going on?’ she said.
‘You can fuck off too.’
‘It’s their baby, isn’t it?’ She looked towards the screaming child. ‘She’s the one off the television, isn’t she?’
McArdle drew fists. His face creased as he yelled, ‘Who are you to ask me anything?’
He stepped forward, put out a hand to grab her throat. Melanie swung with the knife and caught him near the elbow. A red arc of blood escaped as he flinched back and held his arm.
‘You fucking bitch!’ McArdle looked at her, his eyes wide, his brows pushing on his hairline. ‘Give me that fucking knife.’
Melanie swung out again — this time she caught the open palm of his other hand. He screamed out as blood trailed down his fingers and onto the white carpet. He leaned over for a moment and tucked his hand under his arm. As he did so Melanie gripped the knife in both hands and raised it over her head. She brought it down quickly, aiming for the space between his shoulder blades. She could feel the force of her body weight getting behind the falling blade. Her hands held tight; there was no doubt in her mind she wanted to kill him. She didn’t know whether it was because she was too slow, or too weak after her beating, but she seemed to have given too much of her intention away with her movements and McArdle turned with just enough time to avoid the blade. It ripped through his shirt and embedded itself deep in his right arm.
He yelled out, screaming in pain.
Melanie watched as McArdle staggered away. He knocked a picture off the wall then collided with the edge of a small cabinet, tipping a table lamp to the ground.
‘You bitch! Look what you’ve done.’ He had his hand on the knife’s handle; blood covered his shirt and the top of his jeans.
Melanie stared, then stepped back towards the screaming baby. She knew she had blown her chance. She tried to think what to do next. She looked at the bawling child and thought about picking her up and running but McArdle was between her and the door. He pulled at the knife, removed it. The blade dripped with blood. He turned to her, stared with bulging eyes. ‘You fucking bitch!’
Melanie ran for the kitchen. As she went she heard McArdle take off behind her. She reached the table in enough time to yank open the drawer. There were more knives than she could remember; she put in her hands and tried to grab one but her fingers felt numb to the touch. The knives rattled noisily as she tried to pick one up.
‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’ McArdle roared as he entered the kitchen. Melanie turned to face him, saw the knife in his hand, blood still dripping from it onto the floor. His mad wide eyes burned into her; she didn’t recognise him at all now — he was crazed — he was like someone she was seeing for the first time. As he drew closer he seemed to grow in size. She felt the impossibility of any challenge she could make and turned away to run.
The last thing Melanie McArdle heard at that moment was her own screams, as her husband sank the knife into her back. The length of it passed clean through her. She toppled over, and for a second or two the blade showed as she lowered her head towards her stomach, and fell onto the hard, cold floor.
Chapter 42
DI Rob Brennan was halfway down Leith Walk when he spotted the two dogs eyeing each other. They went nose to nose, tails up. For a brief instant it looked like war. Then one of the dogs lowered ears and conceded its inferiority to the dark cross straining on its lead. Brennan watched the small tan terrier drop its tail next, allow the larger animal to dominate it completely. As he took them in, the detective wondered how different people were to dogs. They were both all about strutting, posturing. As he got closer he watched the dogs’ owners nodding and greeting each other — one leaned out a hand and brayed loudly as the other stood still. How different indeed? He recalled some advice from Wullie, back in the early days. A pub fight was never the place for police to go charging in — you were always better sending in a couple of WPCs. His theory was that the presence of females always brought in some civility: ‘It’s just the same with dogs, Robbie… See dogs fighting, throw in a bitch; that’ll separate them.’
As Brennan approached the black graffiti-covered door he wondered how Wullie would receive him. It had been a long time; too long, perhaps. But what were you supposed to do? It seemed like an intrusion now that Wullie had left the force. When they had worked together, it had been inconceivable to Brennan that there would come a day when he wouldn’t see Wullie, but now the days had stretched into weeks, months even, and he felt guilty to be calling on him now. He needed his help, though. Brennan knew there were people in his situation who would be too proud to ask for help, but he was too big for that. Wullie was always the man with the answers; if Brennan was missing something, however small, Wullie would spot it.
He pressed the doorbell and retreated from the step. There was no response. He wondered should he give it another minute or try again right away. An old man across the street left a newsagent’s and started to rub at a scratch card with a coin. Within a few seconds his face went from a barely contained optimism to showing a lifetime’s disappointment; he let the card flutter to the ground.
‘Hello?’ It was Wullie.
‘It’s Rob.’
‘ Rob?’ He sounded incredulous — had it really been that long? ‘Come away in, son.’
The buzzer sprang the lock on the door. Brennan entered.
The steps were grey and dank, like all Edinburgh stairwells. A mishmash of bikes cluttered the landing alongside assorted rubbish. There was a lingering smell of urine and only a few bulbs fizzed on the wall lights. How did people live like this? thought Brennan. At what stage did everyone in this part of the country settle for a one-or two-bedroom rat-hole shared with strangers who never spoke to you? This was tenement living — for most, it was all the city offered, so what could you do? Half a million for a three-bedroom house wasn’t an option for them.
As Brennan reached the second floor he saw Wullie’s door sat open, but there was no sign of the man. He knocked. ‘Hello, Wullie.’
‘Come away in.’ His voice sounded frail, tired. As Brennan entered the small flat he was immediately taken by the lack of air. The place seemed almost too stuffy to accommodate life. He walked down the hall, watching the dust dance in a shard of light, then pushed open the living-room door. There was a small kitchen at one end, pots and carry-out tins piled high. On the other side of the room Wullie crouched over on an old armchair. He wore a white vest and grey slacks; a pair of black braces sat over the vest. He seemed to have put on some weight but all of it sat in a small paunch above his waistband. ‘Hello, Robbie.’
Brennan smiled. Though his heart seemed to be galloping, he held himself in check. ‘You look well, sir.’
‘Fuck off with the “sir” shite.’
Brennan nodded. Made for a seat on the other side of the small living room. ‘How are you keeping?’
Wullie started a hacking cough, rubbed at his chest. Brennan noticed how defined his shoulders still looked — the rest of him hadn’t kept up. ‘I’m as rough as aul’ guts,’ he said, ‘but thanks for asking.’
Brennan knew Wullie had lost his wife and had a strained relationship with his two children but he didn’t want to ask about personal matters; even if the old man was doing it hard, on his own, he’d settle for that in front of sympathy from his peers any day. ‘Well, there’s none of us getting any younger’ — he tapped his stomach — ‘or fitter.’
&nb
sp; Wullie let out a howl: ‘Ha, you’ve a way to catch me yet, pal!’
Brennan brought out the last of his Marlboro pack, showed it to Wullie. ‘Mind?’
‘Fire away.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘I’d offer you a cup of something but I’ve nothing in.’
‘It’s okay. Spend enough time drinking tea as it is.’
Wullie took a cigarette from the proffered pack, sparked up, said, ‘I heard you’d had a bit of a break from duty.’
Brennan had been starting to settle but the remark jolted him. ‘I, er, had some leave after my brother’s death.’
Wullie took a deep drag on the cigarette. ‘I heard about that — nasty business… I’m sorry.’
‘No need.’
Wullie tapped the filter with his thumb. ‘Have they made any progress?’
Brennan tutted. ‘Ian Lauder on the case? You joking me?’
‘Not improving with age, then?’
Sneers. ‘Like a fine wine, you mean? I don’t think so.’
Wullie smiled. His face creased with myriad lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes and covered almost every inch of his skin. His face seemed to have darkened since the last time Brennan had seen him, but his hair had lightened, become greyer. Even the stubble on his chin poked through in white spikes. The sight of him made Brennan suddenly conscious of the passage of time. He had never been aware of Wullie ageing in the job; even when he picked up the sobriquet Auld Wullie, it had passed him by. But now he was an old man. Brennan wondered if he had done the right thing coming to see him. Would he want to hear about what was going on out there now? Would he care? Was he even up to it? As Brennan toyed with these thoughts his mind was quickly made up for him.
‘So, Rob, what can I do for you?’
Brennan reached out, flicked ash into the tray on the mantel. ‘I’m working a case, tough one.’
‘I saw you on the news the other night.’
Brennan grinned. ‘Fame at last.’
Wullie sat forward. ‘That’s some job you have on your hands. Very dirty business indeed… Makes me glad I’m out of it.’
‘Do you mean that?’
A laugh: ‘Fuck no!’
Brennan creased out a wry smile. ‘I need your help.’
Wullie leaned back, squared his shoulders. ‘Don’t know I can be much good to you…’ He waved hands over his midriff. ‘You seen the kip of me?’
‘There’s very little coming together on this one, Wullie. There’s a lot going on but nothing slotting into place.’
The old man reclined further in his chair. ‘Go on.’
Brennan recounted the main points of the investigation; he left nothing out that he thought could be of any use. As he spoke, Wullie seemed thoughtful. Rubbing at his chin once in a while and allowing his fingertips to wander through the hair on the sides of his head. He didn’t interrupt, but Brennan knew there were going to be questions. When he was finished speaking he stood up and stretched his legs in front of the mantelpiece. Wullie looked down towards the window, out into the street. He seemed about to speak and then he stopped himself, flagged Brennan to sit again.
‘What is it?’
‘This Sproul character…’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t link him to anyone in Edinburgh?’
Brennan curled his toes in his shoes. ‘He was Paisley.’
‘No connections down this way?’
‘None we’ve turned up.’
Wullie’s eyes rolled. ‘It’s probably nothing, then.’
‘What were you thinking?’
Wullie crossed his fingers over his stomach. ‘There’s a child missing; he was a beast.’
Brennan spoke: ‘It was his child, I’m almost certain of it.’
Wullie huffed, ‘Since when did that fucking bother them?’
‘Even if he was connected to Tierney — say they did some time together — that doesn’t help me when the bastard’s dead and nobody else is talking about him.’
‘Maybe his connection wasn’t Tierney, then.’
Brennan touched the crease of his trouser, brought it into a tent point. ‘Or maybe he was… but Tierney was a middle man.’
Wullie pointed at him. ‘That makes more sense.’
‘But none of this helps me. I still have four dead bodies and a missing baby.’
Wullie got to his feet. He eased back his broad shoulders, spoke: ‘Well, take a few steps back the way, Robbie… What were you telling me a minute ago about your inquiries?’
Brennan crossed over his leg, twisted his ankle in his hand. ‘Well, we’ve had Tierney’s known associates in, put the thumbscrews on them… Nothing.’
‘How hard have you turned them?’
‘Bloody hard.’
Wullie put a hand on the wall, leaned over and punctuated his words with the point of his finger. ‘Then you have to ask yourself why they’re not talking.’
Brennan let go his ankle, showed palms. ‘That’s obvious: they don’t want to go the same way as Tierney.’
‘Correct!’ Wullie took a long cigarette from a packet of B amp;H 100s, put it in his mouth; it moved up and down as he spoke. ‘Tierney’s connection is higher up the tree than you’ve been looking.’
‘You think I should start climbing a bit.’
Wullie lit his cigarette, pointed to an ancient television screen in the corner of the room. ‘After last night’s performance, the bastard might be climbing down himself… Make sure you bump into him on the way up, eh.’
Brennan put both feet on the floor. He kept an eye on Wullie as he removed his mobile phone, dialled the station.
‘Lou, it’s Rob.’
‘Hello, sir.’
Brennan kept his tone businesslike, but his mind was sparking. ‘Any movement from those scrotes you brought in again?’
A pause on the line. ‘It’s like they’re in shutdown, boss.’
Brennan nodded to Wullie. ‘Right. Turf them out. All at once — I want them to be bumping into each other in the fucking street as they go.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now he let the emotion into his voice: ‘And when that’s done, I want every dealer who might once have sold Tierney an ounce of puff hoiked in.’
Lou couldn’t hide the doubt in his voice. ‘That’s a lot of dealers. There must be dozens of them he could have scored from.’
‘Start at the top. Ones known to be dealing skag in Muirhouse. Don’t go to their delivery boys — right to the top, Lou, and go in hard… I want them rattled until their ears bleed, get me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
As Brennan was about to hang up Lou spoke again: ‘Sir, I don’t know if there’s anything in this, but we took a call and…’ He stalled, seemed to be searching for the right words.
‘Go on,’ said Brennan.
‘We took a call from a woman in Dean Village who says she saw someone on the night of the shootings.’
‘ And?’
‘It’s not much of an ID, but she insists she saw a limping man soon after the shots were fired.’
Brennan felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. ‘How sure is she?’
‘Very. She seems reliable too.’
‘Okay, Lou, circulate that to the team… And all the other channels.’
He laid down the phone, put eyes on Wullie. The old man seemed to be a step ahead of him already.
Chapter 43
Brennan checked his watch when he got onto the street — it was approaching 6.30. Bryce’s celebration for Lauder and their team would be in full swing at the Bull. He really didn’t fancy it; just thinking about seeing Lauder and Bryce gloating was enough to make him want to throw up. His mind was awash with thoughts of the Limping Man; Lauder had never traced him, never came close. Brennan knew he was better than Lauder, he had more invested in catching the bastard, but pros had a way of ducking under the radar and this guy was obviously good, very good.
Brennan crossed the road at the Foot of the Walk. The town was
being dug up to make way for trams that never seemed to materialise. He played with the idea of skipping Bryce and Lauder’s celebration, but there was a definite advantage to be had from seeing them with their guards down. He made his way to the Bull. The tram works had been going on for years, had driven some of the firms on the Walk out of business, and now there was talk about the trams only going as far as York Place because of a financial crisis. It made Brennan shake his head as he looked at the statue of Queen Victoria. What the hell was going on with this city? he wondered.
In Pitlochry he had been reminded that there were other places to live, places with clean air and clean buildings. Green spaces and bins that got emptied. Drunks safely tucked away in their middle-class homes instead of spilling from every shopfront. He had grown tired of the city, was exhausted by it. As he put his hand in his pocket he felt the picture that Lorraine had given him. He toyed with the idea of removing it, looking at his growing child, but he didn’t want to risk being seen by someone. Instead he removed his mobile phone, dialled Lorraine’s number.
‘Hello, Rob.’
‘This is getting ridiculous.’
‘What is?’
‘Oh Christ, stop with the shrink-speak.’
‘If you like.’
Brennan moved the phone to his other ear. ‘I need to see you.’
A note of sarcasm: ‘At last a window opens in your diary.’
‘Say when.’
‘Tonight?’
Brennan sighed. ‘I can’t make tonight.’
‘Brilliant! Why did you call, Rob?’
‘Look, I do need to see you. I just can’t make tonight.’
‘Well, when?’
‘How about Monday?’
She raised her voice: ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
If he was, he didn’t get the joke. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Rob, you have an appointment with me on Monday… I am still your doctor, remember?’
He had forgotten about the session, must have pencilled it in before he was handed the case by Galloway. ‘Well, Monday it is then. I’ll try to be on time.’
‘Don’t try too hard.’ She sounded harsh. ‘Goodbye, Rob.’