Throwaways

by Jenny Thomson

  The counsellor made a harrumph noise as Tommy went on. “We spoke to Donna Di Marco. You may know her; she’s a friend of Sheena Andrews.” He shot her a scornful look when she shook her head. “Please don’t lie to us about not knowing them because we know for a fact that you do. You even offered them work.”

  Tommy stopped talking and eyed me. “What kind of work was it again, Nancy?”

  “I believe the old fashioned word for it is prostitution, although Donna called it…” I paused to flick through the notebook I had. “Putting on a lesbian show. She said it was for a man you set her and Sheena up with. She also says – Donna that is – that you also set Sheena up with other men.”

  Lorna stiffened in her chair. “Donna Di Marco is a lying, conniving little tart. You can’t believe a word that the girl says.”

  “Oh,” I smirked, “so you know her then? She says ‘you know’ all the time, doesn’t she? Very annoying.”

  Lorna moved back in her chair. “What do you want?”

  “We want to know who Sheena’s last client was and whether you set up Tanya as well.”

  “And, if I don’t know?”

  “Simple. We go to the police. If they don’t act, there’s a very good investigative journalist that I know. Before you know it your part in prostituting young, vulnerable women will be all over the papers and the police will have to act. Your career and reputation will be in tatters and you’ll have plenty of time to think about that when you’re behind bars in an orange jumpsuit serving time for profiting from prostitution.”

  My eyes bored into hers as I repeated my question. “Who was Sheena’s last client?”

  “Donald Cassidy.”

  At first I didn’t know why the name sounded familiar. Then it clicked. It was the name of Sheena’s therapist; the one she had supposedly told about Maria Fredericks abusing her.

  At that realization, my gut tightened. Cassidy would have had to kill Sheena to stop it from coming out that a well-known child psychologist liked to get his rocks off watching schoolgirls writhing around.

  Lorna went on, “But I don’t know your cousin. I’ve never met her before.”

  We’d had enough of Lorna and were heading out the door as she bleated away, when she stopped us in our tracks. “I’m not the bad one in this.” Her once warm voice was filled with self-pity. Those girls were getting into cars with strangers. At least my way I knew they’d be safe.”

  I knew that we’d more important things to do; that the callous bitch could keep, but her whiny words made me want to belt her one.

  I marched over to her chair as she watched me as though I was pond scum and she was so damn smart. My face was now so close to hers she must be able to feel my breath on her face.

  “You’re a fucking pimp, Lorna.” I spat out the words, saying her name as if it were two words. A stinking, rotten, greedy pimp. Those girls came to you for help and instead you had them working for you. How does that not make you the bad guy?”

  There was no shame on her face; just self-pity that she’d been caught out. My hands were raised, about to smack her across the face when Tommy grabbed my arm.

  “She’ll keep,” he said. “It’s Cassidy we need to find. Maybe the connection he had with Sheena saved her life.”

  His words stopped me from wiping the holier than thou look off Lorna’s face. But, the lady didn’t know when to shut up.

  “If it weren’t for me those girls would be getting into strangers’ cars for the price of a packet of cigarettes. I offered them a safe way of making good money.”

  She had to be kidding.

  “Safe? You probably sent Sheena Andrews to her death, you callous cow. And Suzy Henderson.”

  Tommy had got up and opened the door, but I wasn’t finished yet. “Soon everyone is going to know what you are. A shitty pimp.”

  And I meant it. If there wasn’t enough for the police to go on, I would go to the papers. There was a grubby little journalist I knew who’d be more than happy to do a bit of digging; who’d pay Donna Di Marco for her story.

  If there was any more evidence needed to nail the bitch, he’d find it and splash it all over the newspapers.

  Chapter 11

  “We need a plan. We can’t just burst into his office, slam him against the wall and demand to know where Sheena is.”

  Tommy was right: that would have been way too much fun.

  “Are you sure? We don’t have to leave any marks. We can beat him on the soles of his feet using a copy of the yellow pages.”

  Tommy rolled his eyes. “Christ, Nancy, who puts these ideas into your head?” His lips moved into a smile. “Course, I know you’re not serious. You’re not that stupid or psychopathic.” He paused, probably remembering my DIY tattoo on the killer-rapist. “Nah, you are a bit psycho.”

  He knows me. That’s why we get on so well.

  * * *

  Dr. Cassidy had a practice in Great Western Road, one of Glasgow’s longest streets. When we dialled the number we got a recorded message telling us he was on vacation and giving the number for two other psychotherapists if we were patients facing “a crisis.”

  “What do we do now?” said Tommy teasingly. “Do you think the good doctor might be playing hooky?”

  “Nah,” I said,” I think he may be too busy torturing the poor women he keeps in his basement to go to work.” I shivered when I said it because I hoped it wasn’t true.

  We decided to pay him a visit on the off chance he was there and reluctant to answer his phone.

  Before we’d even got to his office we heard the sirens. When we turned the corner, the place was swarming with police. We watched two crime scene techs dressed like giant condoms as they performed a fingertip search of the area around the red sandstone building. One was in the small garden at the front of the building, crouching down to inspect the small patch of shrubbery for clues, whilst her colleague followed the short path that led up to the main door. A bored police officer who looked incapable of outrunning a donut, stood sentry at the gate, barring the way in.

  Tommy slowed down the car to get a better look.

  “There’s only one way to find out what’s going on,” I said. “Let me out and I’ll see what people are saying.”

  A crowd of around 40 people had gathered behind the tape; some of them gawped and pointed, whilst others, including an elderly woman and a ruddy woman in a cleaner’s uniform, silently watched the crime scene guys. For them, this was better than Taggart.

  I settled in beside and elderly man who had his grandchild with him in a pram.

  “What a little cutie,” I said, beaming as I gazed down at the wee boy who was sleeping soundly, clutching a floppy bunny rabbit.

  The man flashed me a wry smile. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d heard him a wee while ago, hen. The racket he was making.” He raised his eyes which only served to highlight the wrinkles on his leathery face. “Then all this hoo hah started just as I’d got him to sleep. Can’t believe he hasn’t even stirred.”

  “Have you any idea what’s happened?” Before he could answer, I added, “My sister lives on this road. I’m worried about her.”

  “They brought someone out ten minutes ago. Didn’t look too good to me. My eyes aren’t too good, but I reckon they put a body bag in the back of an ambulance. Guess we’ll hear more about it in the news, hen.”

  Telling him I had to phone my sister, I skulked off.

  “I don’t think we’ll get that wee chat with Cassidy,” I said to Tommy as I climbed back in the car.

  * * *

  Cassidy had been found slumped over his desk by the cleaner, with half his head missing and his gun at his feet.

  It seemed like a classic case of suicide; he’d shoved the gun in his mouth and fired. But because of the work he did – before he went into private practice he’d been one of the resident psychologists at Herriot House, a secure unit for troubled youngsters, many of whom had committed horrendous crimes – the police had to be su
re his death wasn’t linked to his work there. He’d left his job there after four years by “mutual consent.”

  When the police delved deeper they discovered that he’d been asked to resign over his “questionable therapeutic methods.” These included encouraging a 13-year-old child rapist to scrub his genitals with steel wool and telling a 15-year-old girl who’d drowned her baby sister in the bath, to sit in a bath full of ice for 10 minutes to atone for what she’d done. The girl had nearly died of hypothermia. Cassidy had claimed that in order to be cured, these disturbed kids had to be cleansed. He sounded crazier than the people he’d been treating and his erratic behaviour was blamed on the stress of the job.

  Tommy put it best when he said, “So, the psychopath was looking after the psychopaths. Lovely. Wonder if they’ll mention that in his eulogy.”

  I didn’t have the energy to laugh because with Cassidy dead we were faced with one big problem: we’d no idea where he’d hidden the women. We had to find them. With their captor dead, the clock was ticking before they starved to death. That’s if Cassidy hadn’t killed them before he’d killed himself.

  Chapter 12

  Tommy’s face was etched with concentration. “If he did take those women where would he hide them?”

  We were back at his place, hoping that a mug of strong tea and a few Tunnock’s teacakes would bring us inspiration. So far, it’d failed.

  “Well, it can’t be his home or his rental properties. The police will have checked them. Detective Inspector Waddell’s very thorough.”

  Tommy grinned. “Detective Inspector Waddell? Thought you two would be on first name terms, being best pals and all?”

  Leaning over, I gently punched him on the arm. “It’s not like that. You know that.” I paused, trying not to rise to the bait, but I couldn’t stop myself. “You know he was the only one who came to visit me in the hospital…after, you know.”

  My only other visitors had been my cheating ex-boyfriend and my auntie who soon scarpered when she realised I was in gaga land.

  “Now, where would he stash the girls?” said Tommy. “Think.”

  A thought occurred to me. “What if he didn’t act alone? The girls could be hidden at the home of his accomplice?”

  Tommy frowned. “There’s nothing to suggest he had an accomplice.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “What about the secure hospital where Cassidy worked? He’d know it well. I’d be a great place to hide them. Nobody would think of looking there.”

  Tommy made a face. “Nah, I checked that with my contact. The place is run like a prison and they have a biometric entry system and an iris scan. It’s been stepped up since Cassidy last worked there. Before, it was all electronic key cards. Besides, he’s been banned from the place. He’s not even allowed to visit.”

  “So, where does that leave us?”

  We both knew, but we’d been avoiding saying it out loud because that would mean taking drastic action.

  “We need to find Kim,” said Tommy.

  Initially labelled as a missing person, she’d been spotted on the streets again and there was only one way we’d find her.

  It was time for a career change…

  “Mummy, can we have fish fingers and beans for dinner?”

  A smile formed at the corners of Diane’s mouth as she looked at her little girl’s gap-toothed grin. Another tooth had fallen out that day. That meant it was tooth fairy time. She’d wait until Kyra was asleep and leave two shiny pound coins under her pillow.

  “Of course we can.”

  Kyra let out a happy shriek and ran over to her.

  “Mummy, you’re the best,” she chirped, as she wrapped her little arms around her waist. Diane took in the strawberry scent of her daughter’s hair and closed her eyes. Right at that very moment, she was content…

  A swathe of light burned into her retinas as the door was thrown open. And with the light, her little girl was banished like she’d never existed at all.

  “Coming in, ready or not,” the voice chanted.

  He was back again.

  A line from a poem she’d learnt at school came into her head. Something about all that we see or seem being a dream within a dream.

  She wondered if that was what her life was now. Then he threw cold water over her and it felt like icy nails being driven into her skin. She would have shrieked, but the ball gag was back in her mouth. All she could do was watch wide-eyed as the man advanced towards her.

  “It’s time for your treatment.”

  His singsong voice gave her the creeps, but she tried not to show it. When she saw the long needle he clutched in his hand, she whimpered.

  “It will sting a little bit,” he said as he injected it into her arm. Pain ripped through her body…

  Chapter 13

  I was talking to a Polish girl called Katya when a white van roared towards us. I barely had time to register the screeching of brakes, when the back doors crashed open and a pair of arms reached out and grabbed me, lifting me off my feet and into the bowels of the van.

  Before I could protest, a fist pummelled into my jaw and I skidded against one of the wheel arches, clobbering my head off the side of the van.

  As the van sped off, all I could do was stare up at my kidnapper.

  The beast who’d grabbed me was as ugly as he was fat. His beer belly hung over his oil stained trousers as though his gut had been pumped full of air. His Popeye forearms were the size of my waist. He stood over me leering, hands down the front of his trousers giving himself a right good scratch. Eyeing him warily, I tried not to puke as the van lurched from side to side as though we were in the Grand Prix.

  “We’re gonna have some fun, you and me, doll.” He started fumbling with his belt.

  Great, another fucking rapist. That’s all I needed.

  “If any part of your anatomy comes near me, I’ll fucking bite it off.”

  The threat sounded empty to my ears, but no way was I gonna let him think I was an easy target. Now, if only I could scoot over to my handbag; when I’d been bundled in the van it had come off my shoulder. It lay just feet away. Inside was pepper spray and my trusty taser.

  Throwing the whole weight of my body at the bag, I dived for it.

  The strap was within my grasp when the bastard booted me in the stomach. Pain exploded in my gut and the wind went out of me.

  All I could do was curl up into a ball as the kicks rained down on me.

  The van shuddered to a halt and the bastard was flung to one side.

  “Fuck, fuck. Some cunt’s blocked us in.” The panicked voice of the driver boomed through from the driver’s cab and my heart did a wee leap.

  Then I heard Eric’s voice. “Make a move, pal and you’re a dead man.”

  The back doors were wrenched open and Tommy appeared wielding a baseball bat. As the fat bastard clambered to his feet, Tommy whacked him across the middle and the thug folded, clutching his stomach like his gut had burst and groaning. Tommy cracked him again, this time over the head and the fat man went down, his head smacking against the metal floor.

  Tommy stepped over him and helped me up.

  His face was set in a grimace. “For fuck’s sake, Nancy. Why didn’t you use the pepper spray or the taser? If we hadn’t boxed the van in they’d have been away with you.”

  Like I didn’t know that?

  If my jaw hadn’t been throbbing and my head hadn’t been stuck on a merry-go-round I’d have given him a mouthful of abuse. Instead, I let him help me out of the van. He had to take my full weight when I almost fell jumping down because the world was swimming before my very eyes like I was trapped in a snow globe.

  Tommy’s face was etched with concern and for the first time since I’d known him he looked worried. “You need to go to hospital.”

  “I’m okeshhh.” My brain’s saying the right words, but my mouth wouldn’t comply.

  I knew I sounded drunk and that I was drooling blood and bits of broken tooth, but I didn’t wa
nt to go to hospital. Me and hospitals just don’t get on. Not after I’d spent so much time in one when I was attacked and left for dead.

  Tommy slung an arm around me and helped me into the backseat of the car. The last thing I remember before drifting off is taking some painkillers washed down with Irn Bru and arguing with Tommy because he wouldn’t let me wash them down with vodka.

  When I came to, I was lying on Tommy’s couch, wrapped in a duvet and he had his hands clasped behind his head and was saying, ‘’Shit” over and over again. His face was as grey as a Glasgow sky.

  When he saw me, he said, “What was I thinking of letting an untrained civilian go in without backup?”

  I was about to tell him that’s army speak and I hate army speak, when I realised I could no longer articulate the words. My jaw was numb from where the bastard skelped me in the face and I was on so many painkillers (I vaguely remember Tommy waking me to give me more), I could barely keep my eyelids open. It was as though iron weights had been attached to the ends.

  The last thing I heard before I headed off to dreamland, was Tommy prattling away about needing to train me. Drifting off to images of hunky soldiers in combats, I didn’t wake up for another 26 hours and by then another woman had gone missing.

  * * *

  “How are you feeling, Nancy?”

  Below me, I feel the crinkle of starched sheets and the smell of disinfectant snakes its way up my nose.

  Bastard, despite what I’d said, Tommy had taken me to hospital. How could he do this to me?

  When you’ve been locked up in a loony bin that you thought you’d never get out of, you panic when you wake up in hospital; any hospital.

  My hands scramble around trying to find a call button. When my desperate hand closes in on one, I almost weep with relief. This was a real hospital, one you could sign yourself out of. The one I’d been in before only had call buttons for staff.

  A nurse was standing over my bed holding a clipboard.

  “How are you feeling?” She pauses to consult the clipboard. “Nancy.”