Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1

by Tony Black

  ‘No way. No way.’

  The road ahead narrowed as McArdle came off the motorway; he kept his eyes alert to the signs for the turn-off he’d been told about. There was a service station, a Little Chef, with a big car park and a BP garage somewhere on this road. If he could find that, one of his problems would be solved.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ he yelled at the child in the back seat.

  The baby screamed louder, kicked her feet.

  Did she know? Had she been listening to all his talk on the phone with Gunter?

  ‘What you on about?’ McArdle wondered if he was cracking up, losing his mind. Of course the baby couldn’t understand — she had no idea what he was doing.

  But he knew.

  ‘Not my problem. No fucker looked out for me.’

  Life was hard, you had to be hard. He couldn’t afford to think about what he was doing; it was survival of the fittest. He’d heard that phrase once before and it made sense to him. Life was survival — it’s what his had been all about.

  When McArdle spotted the sign for the turn-off he dropped a gear, went into fourth and brought the needle under fifty. He was surprised to see so many cars, and trucks. Lots of truckers. Lazy bastards, truckers, he thought. All those mad murders he’d read about in the papers were truckers. Beasts and murderers. Had to be mad to be a trucker, spending all that time driving up and down the same road day in, day out. And then, sleeping in a cab the size of a bloody toilet cubicle. They were all beasts and murderers, that’s what they were.

  As the thought subsided, McArdle’s mind returned to the moment when he’d put the knife in Melanie’s back. For a second he felt something for her — was that shame? Hurt?

  He blocked it out. ‘The bitch asked for it!’

  The baby screamed louder.

  He turned, roared, ‘Shut it! Shut it!’

  She did ask for it, Melanie. She’d taken a knife to him; he couldn’t have that. He was Devlin McArdle, the Deil. People knew him. He couldn’t have his own wife showing him up.

  But what would people say about him if they knew?

  ‘Nothing. I’m the Deil! Who would mess?’

  There was a voice in his head that jeered him. The voice taunted him with what he’d done. He’d killed his wife, Melanie. He’d had Tierney and Vee killed too. And he’d taken a child, a child he didn’t know a thing about, and was going to hand it over to a gang of paedophiles.

  ‘So fucking what? It’s not my lookout! It’s not my kid!’

  Did it matter whose kid it was?

  He didn’t think about the baby he’d taken from Tierney and Vee, two junkie lowlifes from Muirhouse. Why would he think about a kid like that? So what was it that was different about this kid? Was it because she had been talked about on the television? The minister, on the news. The police, everyone looking for her. This was big news — big, big news.

  McArdle smacked the side of his head with the heel of his hand. ‘No. No.’

  He wanted the rolling of thoughts to stop. He knew if he was caught now, he was finished. He’d be in Peterhead. He’d be in with the beasts.

  ‘I’m not a fucking beast!’

  He’d be in with the beasts, because that’s what they’d say he was. He’d have to be separated from the other prisoners because every day someone would be trying to kill him, stab him. That’s what they did with beasts.

  ‘I’m not a fucking beast!’

  As McArdle lowered the speed, put the needle under thirty, he steered into the car park. The Little Chef was open but there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. He drove around to the BP garage. There was a green Skoda being filled up by a man in a grey suit. A sales rep; there were always sales reps about these places, no matter what time of the day it was. McArdle felt comforted by the sight of the man — he was a connection to the safe, normal world. A rep, just a salesman. Someone like him, sort of. That’s all it was — a transaction. He would hand over the child and take the money, then disappear. It was a sales job, that’s all.

  He drove round past the overnight truck stop and spotted what he was looking for. The silver Citroen estate, with German number plates. He could see Gunter behind the wheel, staring out from behind those thick dark glasses of his. He wore driving gloves, brown leather ones with rope backs. As he spotted McArdle he raised a hand, waved.

  McArdle nodded, put in the clutch and selected third gear.

  The German didn’t move again as McArdle drew up beside him, rolled down the window.

  ‘Gunter,’ he called out.

  The German kept eyes front, pressed a button to lower the window.

  ‘Put the baby in the back with Frank.’

  The child was screaming. McArdle didn’t want to go near her but he wanted rid. He removed his seat belt and then turned to open his door. When he got out of the car he felt his knees buckle; his legs had grown weary after the long journey but he stamped some life back into them.

  The baby screamed louder as he removed the fastenings on the cradle carrier. Her face was red and her eyes tightened as she wailed out. ‘Christ Almighty, can’t you shut the fuck up?’ It was almost at an end; he was about to hand the child over. He felt relieved — why couldn’t she be quiet? The baby let out an ear-splitting shriek. How could something so small make so much noise? And why? Did she know? Why did he keep thinking that? Why did the thought keep pressing on his mind?

  The man in the back of the Citroen leaned over and opened the door; McArdle passed in the screaming child. Her face was scarlet as the man called Frank took her. McArdle caught sight of the smile he gave to the child and then he watched him wet his lips and place a small kiss on the baby’s mouth. McArdle didn’t look back after he saw that. The sight of the red-faced howling baby with the smiling beast made him feel uneasy.

  He moved towards Gunter. ‘Well, that’s that.’

  ‘Is it?’ said the German.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you failed to inform us of the current situation with the police.’ Gunter touched the rim of his glasses; the lenses were dirty.

  ‘Look, you wanted the fucking kid, you got it, now turn over the cash or I’ll have to get nasty.’

  Gunter looked in the rear-view mirror, seemed content with the noisy bundle back there. He reached under the front seat and removed a small package. ‘Here it is. Less than we agreed.’

  ‘It better fucking not be-’

  Gunter raised a hand. ‘We will incur some expenses to evade the police on our return — we now have to drive back through France. We have deducted the extra costs, and something for our inconvenience.’

  McArdle leaned in, grabbed his throat. ‘You never fucking said anything about that.’

  The German choked out his words: ‘And you never said anything about the police. If you like, we can give you the child back and go our separate ways.’

  McArdle turned for a final glance at the noisy baby. As she roared, her round cheeks darkened and her tiny fingers pressed the air. As quickly as he had turned, he looked away. McArdle wanted to strangle the beast where he sat, but more than that he wanted to leave. ‘Get out my fucking sight.’ He grabbed the money and then, stepping back, he pushed the German’s head against the steering wheel.

  The Citroen sped off. McArdle watched the fumes pouring from the exhaust. He tucked the small bundle of notes inside his jacket and headed back towards his car. The rain had started to get heavy.

  Chapter 47

  Devlin McArdle watched a lorry manoeuvring through the car park. It looked awkward as the cab reversed its giant tail through more lanes than he could count. He could see the driver struggling to right the truck, make sense of where he had come to rest, and McArdle felt at ease. He was over the worst of it, surely. The child was off his hands; all he had to do was lie low for a time and then he could think about his next move. He had some money; he had no ties. McArdle knew he had always done okay on his own. He didn’t need Melanie. In fact it was better she was out of the way becau
se she would only go blabbing to the police.

  ‘She had it bloody well coming,’ he mouthed to himself. ‘Better off without the bitch.’

  McArdle started the car’s engine, rolled slowly through the gears until he hit the small network of roads that connected up the service stops. He spotted the Little Chef — he was hungry now — and pointed the wheel towards the front bays. He could see there was a drive-through hatch but it was too early in the day to be manned. He parked up, listened to the engine cooling for a moment and then he went inside.

  The restaurant seemed instantly familiar, although he’d never actually been there before; it was like every other one of a thousand restaurants like it. Blond-wood laminate flooring, geometrically arranged tables and chairs with wipe-down menus everywhere. He spotted the sign for the gents and made his way past what looked like an artificial plant to get cleaned up.

  The toilet room was bright, harsh lights reflecting off clean white tiles. At first he felt uneasy there, as if he was in a spotlight, but after he’d relieved himself, washed his face and neck, splashed water on his scalp, McArdle started to feel calmer, more like his old self.

  The bandage he’d put on his hand had begun to seep blood again. He scrunched his fingers into a fist and watched the red ooze from beneath the cotton. He knew it would need to be replaced; the cut probably needed stitched — the worst one on his arm definitely did — but he would live without that. He couldn’t risk visiting a hospital and being questioned by the medical staff about how he’d come by such serious wounds.

  McArdle put his hand under the dryer, let the warm air remove the moisture. When he was satisfied he tipped his head under the dryer, let the hot jets massage his aching neck for a few minutes. McArdle’s hand still needed attention. He went to the cubicles and removed a roll of toilet paper, wrapped a long stretch round his hand. It looked bulky now. He tried to pat down the tissue paper but it only sprang back. He looked at himself in the mirror: he seemed to be wearing one white boxing glove; it made him laugh. He fronted up to his reflection and started shadow boxing. ‘Yo! Rocky! Rocky!’ He laughed as he swung a final hook on his way to the door.

  The restaurant staff were stationed behind a long counter. As he approached he checked out the menu. There were a lot of breakfast combinations: beans, bacon, toast, eggs. As he made his mind up he became aware of a television playing to his left, a small screen like the one Melanie used to have in the kitchen. He tried not to think about home, but when he turned to have a look he couldn’t help but be reminded.

  The staff in the Little Chef were crowded round the end of the counter as they watched the breakfast programme’s newsreader going through a spiel. McArdle had little interest; he watched desultorily as the young reporter talked about a Liverpool murder hunt. If she had said Edinburgh, he might have been more interested, but who knew he was in Liverpool?

  ‘Hey!.. Any chance of some service here?’

  The staff turned away from the screen in unison, then one of them separated from the small pack of bodies and slouched towards McArdle, glancing back at the others as she went.

  ‘About time,’ he said. ‘My belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

  He made his order but the waitress struggled with his heavy Scots accent, made him repeat it.

  ‘Beans. Toast. Bacon.’ He said the words slowly, as though he was talking to an infant, or an imbecile. ‘And coffee… You get all that, or you want me to write it down?’

  He rolled his eyes, caught sight of the rest of the staff watching him. He’d raised his voice and attracted attention to himself. They looked at him and he raised his bandaged hand in a salute, touched his right eye and smiled before ducking and weaving for show. ‘Rocky, innit!’

  They didn’t get the joke, or didn’t find it funny.

  The group had no interest in him; they were too taken with the tragic series of events being relayed by the newsreader and returned to the screen.

  ‘ The latest victim attached to one of the country’s most high-profile murder cases is a thirty-four-year-old woman who passed away in hospital early this morning. ’

  McArdle rested against the counter, waiting for his breakfast to arrive. The waitress who had taken his order returned to the crowd at the other end of the room, transfixed by the television.

  ‘ Police have not named the woman but say she was directly linked to the case of the murdered Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald. ’

  McArdle registered the name at once. He turned around, senses alert.

  ‘ The schoolgirl’s mutilated body was found in an Edinburgh housing scheme earlier this week, but her baby daughter, Beth, has not been seen since. Police have now issued this picture of a man they are seeking in connection with the murders. Devlin McArdle is believed to be extremely dangerous and members of the public are advised not to approach him. ’

  As McArdle heard his name, saw his photograph flash on the screen, his knees went weak. His heart seemed to have stopped beating in his chest and relocated to his throat. He felt a tight band gripping him round the neck as he watched the news report continue with images of armed police officers stationed at various points around the city.

  ‘ Police say they have definite information linking McArdle to Liverpool and have increased their presence in and around the city centre and main transport hubs. ’

  McArdle didn’t wait for his breakfast to arrive. He backed away from the counter, at first slowly, then, turning, he broke into a sprint. As he dashed for the car, he didn’t look back. His heart had started to beat in his chest again, much faster than he could ever remember it. When he got the door open, he was shaking so hard he could hardly get the key into the ignition. He tried but his trembling fingers wouldn’t obey him and he dropped the bunch down beside the pedals.

  ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he hollered. He had to open the door again and get out to retrieve the keys. When he had them, he used both hands to locate the slot, and then got back in the car. He spun tyres as he left the parking space and raced through the intricate connecting roads back to the motorway. As he travelled, he felt himself rocking in his seat; he gripped at the lever with his left hand and tried to work his way up the gears. He knew he risked being caught for speeding, but he also knew he needed to get far away from the city of Liverpool.

  ‘Fuck!’ He pounded the wheel with his head.

  How did they find him? Who knew? There was no one except the beasts. Had they been lifted already? He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense any more. All McArdle wanted to do was hide, to find somewhere where no one could get him.

  He overtook a bread van heading out of the city and then weaved back into the left-hand lane. He sat there for only a few seconds before he was close enough to read the bumper stickers on a Nissan and then he pulled out again. He decided to stay in the middle lane for as long as he could — traffic was still quite light but it was building. He could see the commuter belt starting to feed in; but they were going into the centre and he was fleeing.

  As McArdle pumped the wheel, the wound on his hand started to weep once more. He saw the blood run down his wrist and towards his shirtsleeve. The sight of the red stream made him nervous, but he didn’t know why. There was no real reason for it. Everything seemed to be conspiring against him. He felt trapped by fate.

  He passed under a flyover and noticed a sign for a slip road. He eased out to the fast lane to let in any traffic that was entering; there didn’t appear to be any. He seemed to have the road to himself. For the next few minutes he pushed the needle higher and kept his eyes straight ahead, waiting, expecting to see some more traffic, but none appeared. Soon the sight of the empty road played on his mind: where was everyone?

  ‘Why the fuck is the road empty?’ he mouthed.

  He passed another slip road, then spotted something in front of him — what was it? As he came closer he thought perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. For a moment, it seemed to McArdle that there were two cars, identical mirror
images of each other, blocking the lanes in front. As he tried to focus his eyes, another one of his senses was assailed by loud sirens wailing from behind him. When he looked in the mirror McArdle saw that the flashing blue lights speeding from the slip road were police cars; turning forward again, he could see the two cars blocking the road ahead were also police cars.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  McArdle tried to think, but his mind shut down.

  Chapter 48

  DI Rob Brennan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Edinburgh Airport. If it was for a holiday, he couldn’t place it. For some reason, those moments — the ones everyone else lived for — never sat so near the repeat button on his memory. He could still channel the summer holidays he’d spent with Andy, when they were boys: the trips to Banff, the boat rides across the water to Arran. But they were remembered for an altogether different reason; Andy hadn’t been so close to his thoughts when he was alive and the guilt burned Brennan every day.

  He looked at his watch — the Liverpool detectives were due in now. He’d managed to get out of the station without being tripped up by any of the press pack and he was grateful for that, but he didn’t want to be seen hanging about mob-handed in such a public place for too long. Brennan had brought three officers and four uniforms in an unmarked wagon. The windows were blacked out and he was pleased about that; there would be enough pictures of McArdle circulating soon.

  The Liverpool police had said the prisoner was subdued, no bother at all, but Brennan knew they hadn’t got the tough job of prising information out of him. He was prepared for a long night of it. He was prepared to give it whatever it took to crack the bastard.

  McGuire sidled up, looked about the place, spoke: ‘This is taking too long.’

  ‘Ease up, Stevie,’ said Brennan.

  He looked at Lou and Brian; they were shuffling their feet nervously.