by Lin Anderson
‘And posting the battle online?’
‘The interest shown, the followers, even the admiration for the way he outwits his opponents, the police, feeds his confidence and his sense of power still further.’
‘And the fact that he failed to outwit and kill McNab?’
‘It’s the first time his plan has been really challenged. If he thought McNab was dead and rejoiced in it, then finding out he wasn’t would seriously enrage him.’
McNab would know that and use it to draw Kearney out. Bill wished again that McNab had confided in him. If he’d still been his DS, he might have, but not now. Not now.
Magnus was regarding him closely. ‘What’s happening?’
‘McNab has set up a meeting with the puppetmaster, and I have no idea where or when it’s happening.’
66
When she buzzed, McNab let her in without speaking. Climbing the stairs, Rhona tried to work out what she would say to persuade him into the best course of action. Revealing the fact that Kearney had tried to kill him could be in McNab’s favour and would go some way to compensate for his less than wise decisions in the Stonewarrior case. But taking advice was not McNab’s strong point.
She composed herself before ringing the doorbell. She would remain calm. She would not argue. That never worked. She would reason with him instead. The first ring wasn’t answered, so she pressed the bell again. When that too went unanswered, she knocked.
At last she heard approaching footsteps and braced herself. Those first few moments when she and McNab met eye to eye could determine the entire encounter.
The door opened.
It took less than a second for her to realize that it hadn’t been opened by McNab. But less than a second was not enough for her to escape.
She was dragged inside and a hand placed over her mouth. The stink of male sweat, cigarettes and alcohol was overwhelming. Mingled with urine, it brought tears to her eyes.
The two hooded figures dragged her through to the sitting room. Above the hand she spied a third, watching her entrance.
‘Who the fuck is she?’ He looked peeved.
Rhona tried to mouth words into the hand.
‘Let her talk.’
‘She might scream.’
The point of a blade poked into her neck.
‘No fucking screaming, bitch,’ the one in view ordered. He was taller than her captors. Thin as a rake, his cheekbones stood out at sharp angles. The sunken eyes were bright with some substance or other, and righteous indignation.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Rhona shook off their hands and cleared her throat. ‘I’m a police officer,’ she lied.
The rake regarded her with some consternation. ‘You live here?’
Rhona wasn’t sure what the right answer should be. If they were looking for McNab, then telling them she lived here wouldn’t work. And, as far as she knew, they would have found no female clothes during their more than obvious search.
She took a calculated guess. ‘If you’re looking for the holdall, it’s not here.’
That stopped his muddled thoughts in their tracks. Then a glint appeared in his already bright eyes.
‘So you know about the holdall?’
I just made a big mistake, Rhona thought. ‘We have it at the station,’ she tried.
‘No you don’t.’ He approached her, bringing with him a heinous mix of stale cigarettes, dope, alcohol and body sweat. He shoved his face in hers, adding rotten breath to the mix.
‘No you don’t. The pig who lives here dug it up and kept it for himself.’
Rhona waited until he withdrew his face a little before opening her mouth to answer.
‘It’s at the station. I’ve seen it.’
The slap came from nowhere and met her cheek in a stinging blow, the force of it sending her staggering sideways. As she strove to recover her footing, the knife point prodded her neck again. She had an immediate image of how close it was to a fatal puncture zone. He did too, and smiled to emphasize the fact.
‘You’re going to call the pig and tell him to get here fast with the holdall or I’m going to practise noughts and crosses on your neck.’
‘Okay.’ Rhona agreed because the last thing she wanted was for McNab to appear on the premises unprepared. She indicated she planned to get her mobile from her pocket. On the two most recent occasions McNab had called, it had been from different numbers. God knew if he would respond to either of them. She tried the most recent number first. It rang out unanswered.
The guy in charge swore loudly.
‘If he’s driving, he won’t answer,’ Rhona said. ‘I’ll have to text or leave a voice message.’
He grabbed the mobile and listened to the standard ‘leave a message’ in a female robotic voice.
‘We’ve got your girlfriend. Bring the holdall home now or I slit her throat.’ He thrust the mobile in Rhona’s face. ‘Speak.’
‘McNab, it’s me.’
He stabbed at her neck and she cried out in pain. He cut off the call and threw the mobile across the room. It skittered out the door. He pushed her onto the couch and told her to keep quiet or he’d mark her face.
Rhona did as bid. Now the initial skirmish was at an end, she took time to survey the room. Every possible hiding place had been raided in their search for the holdall. They’d even found McNab’s stash of booze and were in the process of consuming a bottle each of whisky and vodka. The whisky was a single malt, the vodka a premiere Russian brand. McNab would be well pissed off.
Rhona considered her predicament and what she might do about it. Her mobile was out of reach, so no opportunity to make an emergency call unless the trio drank themselves into oblivion. Unlikely, unless they topped up the alcohol with some other substance.
When the thin guy had threatened her neck, his exposed arm had shown needle tracks. She wondered how long before he needed to shoot up again and whether he’d brought the gear with him, or had relied on finding the holdall.
He caught her swift gaze before she looked away.
‘Fucking boring waiting here. Maybe we should have a little fun to pass the time.’ He came towards her, the grin exposing teeth made in hell.
Rhona swore under her breath. Where the hell was McNab when you needed him?
67
Magnus had departed before DS Clark brought Bill the news.
‘Josh Kearney visited his uncle a couple of months back. According to the care home he brought some of Patterson’s belongings.’ DS Clark’s eyes flashed with excitement.
‘So Josh has access to his uncle’s house?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘Castlemilk, not far from Cathkin Braes Park.’
‘Let’s take a look.’
Until now the only place they’d identified with Kearney was the van that had knocked McNab off the road. If Patterson’s old house had been providing a safe haven for him and his computer equipment, they were one step nearer him and his centre of operation. Bill didn’t dare hope they would find McNab there too.
Thunder was already rolling over the hills as they approached Castlemilk. Stretching up the lower slopes of Cathkin Braes in an interwoven set of streets, they took a couple of wrong turnings before they finally located the address they’d been given. Bill drew into a parking place. Curtains were already twitching, although with the heat, many of the street’s residents were sitting out in the gardens or on doorsteps. The arrival of a police car was of interest, but then again wasn’t that unusual, although a few of the younger street residents melted away at the sight of it.
Bill told DS Clark to guard the car, and approached the door of number 25.
‘No one there,’ he was informed by a man in next-door’s garden. Stripped down to his shorts, his exposed belly would have done a pregnant woman proud. ‘Old Angus is in a home.’ He made a screwing sign next to his head with his forefinger. ‘Went doowally.’
‘What about his nephew? Name’s J
osh Kearney. Nineteen years of age. Drives a dark green van,’ Bill tried.
A woman emerged from the house. She eyed Bill with suspicion. ‘What do they want?’ she asked the beefy man.
‘Looking for Angus’s nephew.’
‘Why?’
Bill decided a lie might be in order. ‘Angus has asked for him,’ he said gravely.
She snorted. ‘No way.’ She turned to go back in.
‘Has Josh been around lately?’ Bill tried.
‘Never seen him.’ The man had taken his cue from the woman.
‘What about the van?’
‘Didn’t know he had one.’
The woman bellowed at the man to get his arse inside and he did. The door was slammed shut, and any remaining audience melted away like snow off a dyke.
Bill knocked on the door, knowing he would get no response. The curtains were shut over dirty windows and the grass in the front garden could have grazed a cow for a week. He walked round to the back of the house. No grass here, just a small stony yard with a high back fence to keep out nosy neighbours, and a padlocked gate.
Bill stood on tiptoe and looked over to find a row of lock-ups, most of them in a dilapidated condition. Multicoloured graffiti screamed at him from their shuttered doors.
He turned and approached the back door. Without a warrant he had no right to enter the house, but he planned to do it anyway. He removed his jacket and wrapped his hand with it, then punched a hole in the glass. Moments later he was inside.
The kitchen smelt of mould and disuse. Bill flicked the light switch to check for power and a low-wattage bulb came to life. Exposing the shadows confirmed that no cooking had been done in there recently, although there was plenty of evidence of mice, whose droppings littered the table and the area round the sink.
Bill ventured out of the kitchen and into a narrow hall. From there he found the living room, home to a worn three-piece suite and an old-fashioned TV set. He checked the toilet next and found some soap and a razor. He tested the razor on his hand and found it was sharp. The toilet pan confirmed the fact that someone had been in here with the urine on the rim of the bowl still wet.
Bill cautiously climbed the stairs.
There were two doors on the upper landing, both standing open.
One room was Angus’s, judging by the contents. A double bed with dirty sheets and a large old-fashioned wardrobe. When opened it proved to contain a few shirts and a couple of heavy coats. The other room resembled a teenager’s bedroom stuck in a time warp, the photographs of footballers and rock bands peeling off the walls.
So this was where Josh Kearney had come when his mother was banged up. And was maybe using now. Bill lifted a glass that sat on a bedside cabinet. Tasting the water, he found it still fresh.
He carefully went through the drawers. They were mostly empty. A deep cupboard held a deflated football and a skateboard. He pulled back the curtain a little. This room looked over the yard with the row of lock-ups.
Bill went downstairs. He exited by the back door and headed round to the car where DS Clark waited anxiously.
‘Request a team to go over the house. Someone’s been there and recently,’ Bill said. ‘Then drive round the back. There’s a row of lock-ups I’d like a look at.’
A group of five youths had gathered across the street. Bill strode directly towards them. He focussed on the one who looked the most defiant on his approach.
‘You,’ Bill said. ‘Come with me.’
‘Get to fuck.’
‘Swear at me again and I’ll book you.’
The guy suddenly became Johnny-no-mates as his pals eased themselves out of the firing line.
‘Come with me,’ Bill said again in a voice that brooked no refusal.
The guy glanced at the car where DS Clark was busy on the radio and, making a decision, swaggered after Bill.
Bill led him round the corner and into the back court.
‘Which of the lock-ups is used by a camper van?’
No answer.
‘This is a murder enquiry, which means if you lie or fail to give information, you’re an accessory.’
That he didn’t like. He shrugged as though it was no skin off his nose to tell. He motioned to one of the metal doors. ‘I seen a van go in there once or twice.’
‘Who was driving it?’
He shrugged again. ‘A bloke.’
Bill eyeballed him.
‘A dark-haired bloke. Maybe twenty. Never speaks. Just ignores you.’ He nodded in the general direction of Patterson’s house. ‘Goes in there too.’
‘You can get lost now,’ Bill said.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Beat it, before more of us arrive.’
The guy gave him the finger and hit the road as directed.
It didn’t take long to break the chain on the padlock, then he had the shutter up. The first thing he noticed was a strong smell of diesel. An engine had been run in here, and recently. Bill started to rummage in the rotting cardboard boxes that lined the walls, discovering broken ornaments, no doubt pilfered during Angus’s numerous burglary sprees. His fetish for women’s underwear was represented by a varied collection in sizes and styles of bras and knickers.
He turned to find DS Clark.
‘The forensic team’s on its way, sir.’
‘Good.’ Bill tried not to show his disappointment that he’d discovered nothing in the house, or here, that brought them any nearer to finding McNab and the elusive puppetmaster.
68
McNab’s world consisted of nothing but pleasure. It was better than being drunk, because he felt no need to talk, fight or fuck. A little voice told him that this was what junkies felt like. Why they would do anything to get to this place. At that moment he felt the same. He cared about nothing more than riding the waves that engulfed him.
Just as that thought occurred, his heart, which had been beating like a slow, smooth waltz, kicked into something faster. Every nerve and sinew in his body launched into song. His heart was a massive machine in his chest, pounding out pleasure. He was fast-fucking into ecstasy. He tried to scream, but the sound was sucked into the singing of his nerve ends. He saw a bright light at the end of a kaleidoscopic tunnel and raced towards it. When he emerged he knew he had reached heaven.
He checked for the pulse and found one so faint it felt like a fluttering moth wing. The bastard had survived but only just. He was strong. Many other hearts would have beat their way to death given that level of dose. He would be out cold like this for a while. When he reached the stone circle, he would inject him again before he stuck him with the knife. He opened the van door a little to check the light. At least another couple of hours before it would be dark enough.
The female was moaning softly, her face pressed to the pillow. The pig didn’t have a pillow. He lay on the floor alongside the bed. Josh yawned. He would sleep in that bed tonight, well away from here. He would sleep the sleep of the damned and enjoy it. He moved to the equipment that lined the left-hand side of the van. It was time to prepare his audience for the final scene.
Would they be able to work out where it was going to happen?
This particular stone circle wasn’t on any map that featured Neolithic sites, yet it was right under their noses. Buried in plain sight. Maybe he would use that phrase when he posted.
He spent some time digitally reworking his pictures, then put them up online. In seconds they were travelling cyberspace, being tagged and retweeted and discussed. He read a few of the comments and guesses, irritated that there were so many stupid people trying to play his game. Sometimes he felt surrounded by idiots.
He listened to the mobile message again and smiled. She too had been easy to fool. Iona had told him that the policeman had the hots for the forensic woman and that she was soft on him, although she pretended not to be. He glanced across at the comatose McNab. He’d planned to let him listen to the message. Watch his face as he realized who had his girlfriend and why. But it ha
d become necessary to quieten him.
He contemplated what he should do about the woman. He checked his watch. The call had come an hour ago. Anything could have happened in that hour.
He made his way round to the driver’s seat.
The engine purred into life. He switched on the lights and wound his way down onto the motorway, heading out of the city. Everything was going to plan. The small problem of the female’s mobile had been solved. If the pig had revealed that he had it to anyone else, it wasn’t apparent. He’d tried to play the big man by reeling him in alone. And he’d failed.
The motorway was a steady stream of light. He headed down the slipway and merged in. A glance at the overhead bridge reminded him that the traffic cops might be looking out for the vehicle. He should maybe have stayed clear of the main road. That small feeling of insecurity was quickly doused by a feeling of control.
He had number four and the cop. They would die together inside the final circle.
McNab had been standing with his back to the kitchen door, listening. He should have turned more quickly. He should have heard the footsteps sooner. He relived the moments, replayed them again and again, but it always played out the same way. One moment he was conscious, alert and ready to meet the bastard face to face. The next moment his legs were crumbling beneath him and he was fingering his neck. Then the whoosh as the drug hit his bloodstream. In the dream he saw a girl lying naked, him climbing on top of her. Her face was Iona’s. He tasted metal on his tongue, felt a spike between his fingers as he touched her breast. He entered her only to feel a metal gate shut on him, trapping him there for ever.
He screamed in agony and the scream escaped his brain and woke him. He was in utter darkness and he was moving, although pressed against a floor. He tried to raise his head but it felt like lead. He reached out with his brain to locate his right hand and felt his fingertips touch the floor. Then his left hand. It was twisted at a strange angle and when he tried to straighten it the pain made him gasp.
Making a sound seemed wrong so he smothered it, then tested for his legs and feet. He was in darkness and moving. There was a smell of diesel and sweat and something else? The scent of a woman?