‘They’re not my mates,’ she said. ‘They’re nothing to do with me.’
‘Tell us another one,’ muttered Eric. ‘I’ve got eyes.’
Whatever that meant. Holly stared at him, but he turned his head away.
The stair squeaks stopped. The voices were louder. There seemed to be only two of them, but then, Holly reflected with a shiver, Bernie was the silent type.
She noted that a few maggots had squirmed almost to the table edge. She hoped they wouldn’t fall into her lap. Then she wondered what a few maggots on her lap mattered when she was probably about to get shot.
The door swung open. Fen lumbered in.
‘Get up,’ he said, staring straight at Holly. ‘You’re coming with—’
His voice broke off in a little squeak as Eric’s pipe landed squarely on his head. His knees buckled. Martin caught him neatly and lowered him to the ground.
There was a moment’s silence, broken by the sound of the front door being unlocked and creaking open. Eric, Martin and Trevor leaned slightly forward. Holly, Sheena and Una sat rigidly still, their eyes on the open doorway.
‘Fen!’ Skinner called, his voice echoing in the hallway. ‘Moonie! Stop farting around! Just bring her out, will you?’
Receiving no answer he swore comprehensively and they heard him hurrying back towards the library. ‘Come on, you bloody morons! I want her in the car before Bernie comes down. He’s not happy, and you know how he gets when—’
He scurried through the door, his head poking forward tortoise-like on his scrawny neck. Martin brought the spanner down efficiently and, without a sound, Skinner sagged into Eric’s waiting arms.
‘Hope I haven’t killed him,’ said Martin. ‘I didn’t realise he was a shrimp.’
Eric shrugged.
‘He’s the one with the gun,’ Holly told them. Her voice sounded strange and breathy.
Martin unearthed the gun from one of Skinner’s jacket pockets.
‘Another fake,’ he said, as he took it out and checked it.
‘Are you sure?’ Una snapped.
Martin looked at her. ‘Pretty sure. The badge on the butt says Super Spy Junior.’
Una snorted. Sheena sighed. Eric sniggered. Holly clenched her fists, seething with rage and self-loathing.
‘The front door’s open,’ whispered Trevor, who had crawled to the doorway to look out. ‘Do we wait for the other one, or—’
He froze like a hunting dog on point.
‘Leanne!’ he squeaked. ‘Leanne, I told you to stay . . . Get back! ’
The stairs shrieked. Heavy footsteps pounded downward, very fast. Trevor sprang to his feet.
‘Leanne!’ he bellowed, bolting out into the entrance hall. ‘Run!’
As the door swung gently closed behind him there was a thump, followed by silence—a terrible, blank silence. Then slow, squeaky footsteps sounded on the marble floor. The library door swung open again. And there, framed in the gap, was the tall, lanky figure of Bernie the psychopath. He was clasping Leanne Purse close to his chest. The point of his knife was pressed to Leanne’s soft white throat.
Eric and Martin stood immobile on either side of the door, their weapons raised. Both of them were sweating. Martin looked at Holly, a question in his eyes. She shook her head slightly. One sudden move and Leanne would be dead. She had no doubt of that.
Bernie pushed the door open and took a step forward, carrying Leanne with him like a life-sized doll. His eyes slid from one side to the other, registering Martin and Eric’s presence without surprise.
‘Drop them,’ he said softly.
As the two men hesitated, he moved his hand very slightly. A bright drop of blood welled up beneath the point of the knife and trickled down Leanne’s neck. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened, but she didn’t make a sound.
Martin and Eric looked at one another, and lowered their arms. The spanner and the piece of pipe clattered to the ground.
‘Back,’ Bernie ordered.
The men shuffled back.
‘Further,’ said Bernie.
As they obeyed, he took another step forward, hauling Leanne with him. He looked swiftly around, noting Holly, Sheena and Una, the rat on the tabletop, Fen and Moonie sitting up groggily, holding their heads, and Skinner still lying huddled on the floor. He gave Skinner a negligent kick. Skinner groaned, and Bernie kicked him again.
‘The police are coming, you know,’ Una Maggott said loudly. ‘They’ll be here any minute.’
Bernie ignored her completely. His eyes were on Holly. ‘You!’ he said. ‘Here!’
Holly stood up. She heard Una order her to stop, but she paid no attention. She skirted the end of the table and moved forward, past the rigid figures of Eric and Martin, past the groaning Fen and Skinner. What else could she do, with the knife point hovering a millimetre above the little cut on Leanne Purse’s neck, from which blood still flowed, a scarlet line that ended in a spreading stain on the lacy edge of the pink camisole?
She reached Bernie and in a single, fluid movement he thrust Leanne aside and grabbed her.
22
Holly felt herself pressed hard against Bernie’s body. She registered automatically that he used Blue Stratos after-shave, and no deodorant. She felt the knife blade at her neck. She felt a sensation behind her feet, heard a sobbing sound, and knew that it was Trevor Purse, crawling through the doorway and finding Leanne safe.
That’s good, she thought hazily. That’s very good. Not that she wanted to die, but if it was inevitable, it was nice to know it had been in a good cause.
She realised her eyes were shut, and opened them. The first thing she saw was Martin’s face. He was looking straight at her, and his eyes weren’t as hard as blue ice anymore. They were agonised, in fact. That was strange. He hadn’t seemed to like her much.
‘Where’s McNish?’ Bernie muttered in her ear.
‘I don’t know,’ Holly said.
She felt a stinging pain as the knife pierced the skin of her neck. It wasn’t so bad, actually. It was like when old doctor McGrath back in Perth had said, ‘Now, you’ll just feel a little prick . . .’—a phrase that had always made her smile.
‘Where’s the money?’ asked Bernie, still in that same low mutter.
‘I don’t think there is any money,’ Holly said. ‘I think Andrew spent it. Or lost it. Or paid other debts with it. He was skint, at the end. I think he’d been close to the edge for a long time.’
She knew it was true. It was as if, in this moment of crisis, her mind had suddenly cleared on one matter at least. Andrew McNish, thief and swindler, had been fond of her, in his way. If he’d had a fortune stashed away, he wouldn’t have taken her money.
She waited for another sting, but it didn’t come. Bernie had become very still. He seemed to be thinking. To take her mind off what the final results of his cogitations might be, she focused on her surroundings.
Fen had staggered to his feet and was hauling Skinner up. Trevor and Leanne Purse were sitting on the floor not far away. They had their arms around one another, and both of them were crying. There was an angry red swelling just under Trevor’s right eye. Leanne’s neck had almost stopped bleeding, but her pink camisole would never be the same, in Holly’s opinion, even if she knew the trick about soaking bloodstains in cold water.
Eric was standing with Martin by the bookshelves. Sweat beaded his forehead and his mouth was hanging open. Maybe he had finally realised that he’d been wrong about Holly’s motives and allegiances. Maybe they both had. She took grim satisfaction in that, then wondered if she was losing it. If it came to a choice between someone thinking badly of her and having a knife stuck in her throat, which would she choose?
Sheena and Una were still sitting at the table. Sheena’s face looked frozen. There was no way of telling what she was feeling. Una was scowling and her nostrils were pinched together, possibly because beside her the odoriferous Moo-nie had crawled to his knees.
Bernie made a low gr
owling sound and turned very slightly towards the door. The muscles of his knife hand tensed. Holly felt a wave of dizziness. Here it comes, she thought. She shut her eyes again, and braced herself.
But after a while she realised that she was still alive. The knife hadn’t touched her again. Or if it had, she hadn’t felt it. All she could feel was the iron band of Bernie’s arm, and the tickling of the blood running slowly down her neck and on into her cleavage.
She found herself wishing that she wasn’t wearing her favourite bra—the white lace one with the embroidered pink rosebuds. She told herself that someone on the point of death should be thinking of more spiritual things than bras, but nothing spiritual occurred to her. It was hard to think when her mind was filled with the pounding of her own heartbeat, vague, echoing whispers, and a clicking sound that reminded her of high heels tapping on a marble floor.
The whispers suddenly became intelligible.
Death! one of the whisperers said. I feel it! Oh, my God!
Wait! said another. Take it steady, dear! We don’t know what . . .
The tapping sped up, grew louder. Then abruptly it stopped and there was a low, gasping cry.
That’s not in my head, Holly thought slowly. That was real.
She opened her eyes.
Abigail and Mrs Moss were gaping at her through the open door.
‘Holly!’ Abigail breathed. She looked haunted and dishevelled. Leaves and little sticks clung to her long green dress, her purple scarf and her tangled hair. Mrs Moss looked more normal, but her lipstick was smeared and her eyes were round with fear.
‘In,’ Bernie ordered. Holly felt the knife point just graze the wound in her neck. She winced. It hurt a lot more this time.
Mrs Moss squeaked and seized Abigail’s arm. Together they stumbled past Bernie and Holly, into the room.
‘Sit,’ Bernie told them, jerking his head at the table. And when he swung Holly around she saw that they had done it, taking the chairs abandoned by Dulcie and Sebastian.
‘They’ve been torturing you, Holly!’ cried Mrs Moss, staring in horror at the maggoty rat. ‘Oh, the smell in here!’
‘Some of it’s him,’ said Una, nodding at Moonie. ‘He’s covered in vomit.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Moonie. A maggot dropped over the edge of the table onto the back of his hand. He yelled and scrambled up, shaking the hand violently and rubbing it on his trousers.
‘There, Abby,’ Mrs Moss whispered, patting Abigail’s hand. ‘A dead rat, that’s all you felt. Just a dead rat.’
Abigail looked unconvinced.
‘Where did it come from?’ Fen asked stupidly.
Shuddering, Moonie nodded at the padded envelope still lying on the table. Fen lumbered over and picked it up.
‘Holly Cage,’ he read aloud. ‘Per-son-al.’ His brow puckered.
‘That’s her,’ said Moonie, jerking his head at Holly. ‘She gave them a phony name.’ He expanded slightly, as if being privy to fresh information would improve his damaged status.
As Fen turned the envelope over, a sheet of paper slid out and flapped onto the tabletop along with several stained rat hairs and a few more maggots. Everyone looked. The message on the paper, made up of words cut out of a newspaper, looked like a poison pen letter in an old-fashioned mystery novel: GIVE UP AND GET OUT OR ELSE.
Holly stared blankly at the message. Her stomach was churning.
‘Someone trying to scare her off,’ said Moonie, and gave a weird, high giggle.
‘McNish?’ Fen asked slowly, his forehead puckering. ‘What for? She’s working for him, isn’t she? She’s his tart. She was in his house. She knocked off that dick O’Brien who was after him.’
‘Shit eh!’ Holly heard Eric exclaim with what sounded like respect.
‘Holly did not knock off Mr O’Brien,’ Mrs Moss cried indignantly. ‘Mr O’Brien croaked before we got there. Long before.’
Bernie turned his head to look at her. Holly felt his knife hand relax slightly.
‘McNish wouldn’t touch a dead rat,’ said Moonie. ‘It’s not his style.’
Skinner gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘You’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘Plus, whoever addressed that envelope thought her name was Holly Cage.’
Yes, Holly thought. And who is Holly Cage? The private investigator Una hired to convince the police that Andrew McNish hadn’t stolen and run, but had been murdered. Persuasion hadn’t stopped her. Claims that Una was senile hadn’t stopped her. So threats were the next logical step. Death threats, in fact, if that maggot-ridden rat enclosed with the note had any meaning at all. Someone had prepared that nasty little package and left it in the sideboard for her to find. Someone who hoped—who believed—that she was gutless enough to take the warning and go. Cold anger swept through her. Who did they think she was?
‘For the last time, I’m not working for Andrew McNish,’ she spat at Skinner. ‘I’ve been trying to find him, that’s all. He ripped me off just like he ripped you off, and I wanted my money back.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Skinner, but for the first time he sounded uncertain. He was eyeing Holly rather nervously—a bit like Lloyd used to do when, very occasionally, she became what he called ‘overexcited’. Possibly she was looking a little wild-eyed. Well, too bad, she told herself. Knife at her throat or no knife at her throat, if anyone had a right to a temper tantrum at this moment, she did.
‘Didn’t your goons here tell you I was sleeping on the floor in an empty house with nothing but gherkins and dry cereal to eat?’ she raged at Skinner. ‘Why do you think I was doing that? Because Andrew McNish had cleaned out our bank account and left me flat, that’s why! Because I had nowhere else to go!’
Skinner glanced sharply at Fen.
‘She didn’t tell Bernie and me any of that stuff,’ Fen said defensively. ‘She just said McNish weren’t there.’
He looked at Bernie for confirmation, but Bernie didn’t say a word.
‘Well, what was I supposed to say?’ Holly shouted. ‘I wasn’t going to tell two complete strangers my private business!’
‘You might have told me, however,’ said Una.
The rasping voice penetrated the roar that was filling Holly’s ears. She forced herself to meet Una’s furious eyes and her own rage abruptly died.
‘I’m sorry, Una,’ she said. ‘I meant to, but . . . things got out of hand.’
The feebleness of the excuse brought the blood rushing to her cheeks. She knew that she had more important things to worry about than being exposed as a lying schemer, but even her awareness of Bernie’s knife didn’t dull her feeling of burning shame. She was acutely aware of Mrs Moss, Eric, Martin . . . She could imagine what they were thinking of her.
‘You mean you’re not a detective at all?’ Trevor Purse burst out. ‘But I hired you to follow my wife!’
‘I trusted you!’ Una had begun to tremble. Her face was a mask of baffled fury. ‘You lied to me! You took my money! You promised you’d search the house. Get sniffer dogs to find the body.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ Sheena muttered.
‘What body?’ Skinner was blinking rapidly. He seemed to be having trouble taking all this in.
‘Andrew’s body!’ Una shouted, her voice cracking into a screech. ‘He’s been murdered, I tell you! The teaspoons prove it!’
Her cheeks were mottled red. Her tearless eyes were burning.
‘Who are you people?’ wailed Moonie. Holding his stomach, he edged away from Una and made for the door, looking distinctly queasy again.
‘Mad as a meat-axe,’ Holly heard him mutter to Skinner as he passed him. ‘They’re all mad as meat-axes. No wonder McNish pissed off.’
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Skinner demanded feebly, recoiling as the stench rising from Moonie’s clothes reached his nostrils at full strength.
Moonie kept moving. ‘This has been a balls-up to end all balls-ups,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I’ve had it with this place.’ He disappeared through t
he door and they heard his shoes squeaking on the tiles of the entrance hall as he made a rapid departure.
Fen stared at Skinner in bovine enquiry, his eyebrows raised, his mouth hanging slightly open.
Skinner bared his teeth, then bowed to the inevitable. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So it’s a washout.’
‘What about that bag Bernie found upstairs?’ asked Fen.
Holly’s heart gave a sickening thud. Una hissed.
‘What about it?’ Skinner snapped.
‘It was his—McNish’s.’
‘So what? There was nothing in it—just clothes and shit.’
‘But it was stuffed in behind the hot water tank,’ Fen persisted. ‘Why was it hid? Maybe the old tart’s right. Maybe McNish never left. Maybe someone did cool him off.’
Someone in the room moaned softly. Holly thought it was Abigail.
‘And maybe he just wanted to travel light,’ Skinner snarled. ‘Who cares?’ He turned to Bernie. ‘Let the stupid bitch go. She doesn’t know anything. We’re out of here.’
But Bernie didn’t move and his grip on Holly didn’t relax.
‘You said McNish was here,’ he said to Skinner. ‘McNish and the money.’
Fear sparked in Skinner’s eyes, and was instantly suppressed. Trial expressions of apology, irritation and superiority flickered across his face in quick succession before he finally plumped for bravado.
‘We all make mistakes, right?’ he said carelessly. ‘I thought the little shit was here, but he’s not. So sue me.’
Bernie made a low growling sound and the next moment, miraculously, the pressure on Holly’s throat had vanished, and Skinner’s eyes were popping like a startled rabbit’s as he backed hurriedly towards the door with Bernie prowling after him.
‘Now, Bernie,’ Skinner chattered. ‘Don’t take it like that. You’re upset, I can understand you’re upset, but—’ Abruptly he whirled around and bolted. Bernie went after him, taking his time.
Left alone, Fen looked helplessly around the room, opening and closing his fists. Holly felt almost sorry for him.
‘You’d better keep your traps shut about this,’ he said, with a feeble attempt at a bullying tone. ‘You set the cops on us and we’ll tell them you snuffed McNish.’
Love, Honour & O'Brien Page 25