“Shug, do you know who killed Mum and Dad? Is it anything to do with something you’re involved in?”
My eyes are trained on him, waiting for a reaction. A blink, a flicker, sideways glance. Any suggestion he’s being less than honest. The truth is I stopped believing most of the things Shug said a long time ago. About the time the police turned up at my door looking for a necklace he’d given me as a present; it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to pass off stolen property as a gift. If Shug got you anything, you could guarantee it was stolen.
He leans over the table and lowers his voice. “No. I wish I did, because then I’d get those fuckers. I’ve got a lot of pals in here. Ones that owe me a favor—”
I don’t have time for this, so I cut in, “So, you’re telling me you don’t know who’s behind this?”
“Nope.”
He sounds adamant, but then Shug could be out in the rain, splashing through the puddles and still swear it wasn’t raining.
“Shug, nobody kills decent folk like Mum and Dad in that way for no bloody reason. It’s has to be connected to you.” I pause, remembering the bullets in their heads. “The police say they were shot gangland style. Almost as though they were executed, DI Waddell said. They’re trying to say it was a burglary gone wrong, but I’m not buying it.”
I’m aware of the fact that I’ve raised my voice, that I’m getting hysterical, and I know I need to rein it in. One of the guards is staring over at us. He could end this visit at any time.
My features relax and my tone’s conciliatory. He won’t tell me if he realizes how angry I am with him. “You can tell me, you know. I won’t be angry. I need to know.”
Not so much as a flicker from Shug. Any pretense of being calm disappears as my throat tightens. I’d put all my hopes on Shug knowing something. If he doesn’t, I’m back to square one.
“Sis,” he says, eyes fixed on mine, “if I knew anything, I’d tell you.”
Shug isn’t a professional thief (he gets caught far too often), but he’s a professional liar, and I know he’s lying because his lips are moving.
“You know, Shug, I can’t believe that you’d lie to me. After what happened, you owe me an explanation. This has to be linked to you; it’s got to be. Why else would this have happened?”
My heartfelt plea falls on deaf ears. I cut the visit short with Shug’s denials ringing in my ears and the sickening knowledge that yet again my own brother is lying to me. Covering his own tracks is more important to him than catching whoever killed our mum and dad.
Chapter 9
As he watched his sister go, Shug Kerr felt the first stirring of what he remembered was guilt. He hadn’t felt this way in so long, he almost didn’t recognize it, but there it was, like a tiny piece of pie pastry being peeled away, exposing the chunks of meat hidden underneath. He knew he was to blame for all of it, but he couldn’t admit that to Nancy because that would put her in danger. If they came for her again, this time they wouldn’t botch the job.
When he got back to his cell, he jumped as a shadow appeared inside the doorway. He’d been expecting this. McNab wasn’t the kind of man you messed with without payback—even when you hadn’t set out to mess with him. How was he to know it was McNab’s bird he and Kenny had burgled?
Shug’s body relaxed when he saw who was standing in the doorway. “Oh, it’s only you, Mr. Thomas.”
For a screw, Thomas was one of the decent ones. A bit of a ball-breaker when it came to rules and regulations, but as straight as they came. There was no chance of him “doing you a wee favor,” but he wasn’t liable to have you dragged off to solitary on some trumped-up charge because he didn’t think you showed him enough respect when you said good morning.
“Where’s Ferguson?”
Shrug thumbed his finger in the direction of the toilet. “He’s in the bog. Been there for a while, making all sorts of noises, sir. Sounds like his gut’s exploding. Must be that stew Herriot made.”
As if on cue, a sound like a sink being unblocked came from the toilet, followed by groaning noises.
“Yes,” Mr. Thomas said, distracted. “He’s not noted for his culinary excellence.”
Something about the way he was hovering there was making Shug nervous. Normally, he’d come in for a wee word and march off to check on some of the other inmates.
Shug eyed him warily. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Thomas?”
“No, Kerr. I don’t think you can.”
Mr. Thomas stood there stiff as a rod, dithering in the doorway as Shug sat on his bed. The screw’s huge forehead was made bigger by the fact he was bald and had one long caterpillar brow. He was sweating. He used his hand to wipe some of the dampness away.
He didn’t look well.
“Are you okay, sir?”
The guard said nothing for a few minutes, then eyed Shug. “You know how sometimes we don’t want to do things but we’re forced to, son?”
Fear slithered its way up Shug’s gut. The screw was there to kill him. He’d heard stories of prison guards having their families taken hostage so they’d do whatever folk asked. McNab must have got to Thomas somehow. For a price anybody would do over anybody.
When he reached into his inside pocket, Shug lurched to one side, expecting a blow or the glint of a blade. Except none came.
The guard’s face relaxed. “Sorry, son. Just waxing lyrically, you know, that’s all.”
No, Shug didn’t know.
“Here, this letter came for you through that ‘e-mail a prisoner’ scheme thing. Handy scheme, that.”
The thing in his pocket wasn’t a weapon of some kind—it was a letter.
Shug’s heart went back to its usual beat. “Thanks, Mr. Thomas, I appreciate you bringing it to me personally.”
As Shrug watched the screw bolt out the door and head towards the sound of someone’s head being used as a nail, Shug felt stupid. Imagine thinking Mr. Thomas was going to kill him.
When Fergie came out of the toilet, his hair was plastered to his forehead as if he’d put it down the bowl a few times and flushed. The stench that wafted out of the bog reminded Shug of a slurry pit he’d once cleaned for a farmer. He’d done it so he could raid the house when the old boy was asleep. Hard work was something Shug usually avoided at all costs.
Shug pinched his nose with two fingers. “Bloody hell, Fergie, that’s minging.”
Fergie didn’t answer. His face was the color of the putty they put in windows to plug the gaps, and he was holding something in his hand.
It wasn’t until he was a few feet away that Shug saw the improvised knife, and his stomach clenched.
“I don’t have the skids. I needed time to make this. Away from you.” His voice was dull.
“What are you doing with that, man? Don’t do anything silly now. You’re due out in two years.” Shug was aware his words were coming out sounding like a strangled cat’s, but he’d no control over his voice. He was backed into a corner. He’d never seen this coming. Not Fergie. They were buddies.
He forced his lips into a smile as he eyed his pal, holding a knife and being unsure about using it. One second of hesitation and he’d have to make his move; disarm him.
He held out his hands, palms up as though that’d save him. He needed to offer the man something. Make a deal.
“Fergie, I can tell you where the gun is.”
Fergie appeared to be thinking about it for a second, giving Shug a glimmer of hope. Then a wry grin crossed his face and he shook his head.
“Nah. McNab’s not caring where the gun is now. The lassie doesn’t know. You’re the only one who does, and you need to be dealt with.”
“I thought we were buds.” There was a tremble in his voice. As he tried to duck past and failed, Shug heard someone’s desperate whining and wanted to tell that voice to be a man, but then he felt his bladder go and realized he was the whiner.
Fergie kept talking. “Sorry, Shuggy boy. I need to do this. It’ll clear all my debts. I�
��ll have a clean slate.” A smile flashed across his face. “Get back with the missus.”
With a last desperate glance, a last appeal to friendship, he could do nothing as Fergie thrust the knife into his gut and gave it a twist. Something tore inside him. Fergie’s voice sounded as though he was coming from a long way off.
“Sorry, pal. Just business, you ken...”
Fergie spoke in the same voice he used to cadge a pack of smokes.
Tiny chinks of light danced before Shug’s eyes. They reminded him of the meteor showers he used to watch with his dad, the pair of them with binoculars and a flask of tea, traipsing around the park in subzero temperatures.
“We’re all made of light, son,” he’d say as they stood in the pitch-dark, gazing up at the sky, and wee Shug wondered how many shards of light made up a boy.
He guessed he’d find that out now.
Chapter 10
I’m half between sleep and the restlessness you get when you’re trying to wake yourself up because you’re in the grips of a nightmare, when there’s a thunderous knock at the door. Pulling the pillow over my face, I try to drown it out.
But whoever’s there is not giving up. More pounding followed by a voice booming down the short hall.
“Nancy, its DI Waddell. I need to speak to you.”
Damn, what does he want?
Hauling myself out of bed, I shove my toes into my slippers and stomp down the hall. I don’t know how he managed to find me here—now I’ll have to move.
When I open the door, bleary-eyed and with my blood pressure rising, demanding to know why he’s hammering on my door at seven a.m., Waddell’s standing there in his trench coat, his gangly deputy by his side. The guy reminds me of an emu, all legs.
“Nancy, can we come in?”
If I say no, he’ll only come back, so I nod and step aside.
I lead them through into what passes for a living room—there’s only enough room for a two-seater couch and a stool—and indicate that they can have the couch.
“If this is about my parents’ murders, I haven’t remembered anything else, and to be honest, I think it’s a bit early for a visit.”
Waddell’s gaze flickers between me and my new home as though he can’t bear to look at me for any length of time. Worry’s gnawing its way into my gut. He plants himself down on the couch as his sidekick stands there casting a shadow.
“You’d better sit down, Nancy.”
Something in his voice makes me do what I’m told, for once, and I sit on the stool.
He leans forward and puts his hands on his knees.
“I’m sorry, but Shug’s dead.”
“What?” That can’t be right. I saw him yesterday. He’s got it wrong. “There’s been some mistake.” I’m adamant. There’s no way this is true.
DI Waddell reaches over and pats my hand. His face is etched with the same concern he’d had when he first visited me in hospital. He’s showed me more care than my aunt ever did.
“I’m sorry, Nancy, but it’s true. We’ve been to the prison. Your brother was stabbed to death by his cellmate. He’s confessed to the crime. Not that he could deny it, his fingerprints were all over the knife.”
A hand’s gripping my heart, trying to squeeze the life out of it.
“No.”
I get one word out before the tears fall. How much more am I meant to take?
“It was an argument over cigarettes. He said Shug promised him his but reneged on the deal. These things happen in prison. People kill for reasons that we on the outside might consider trivial.”
The detective inspector keeps on talking, but it’s all white noise. Shug’s dead.
The last thing Waddell says before he leaves is that a family liaison officer will be coming to see me to offer me some support. I’ll be out when they call. I’m already planning to move, because if the police can find me, so can whoever killed Shug, because there’s a possibility they killed our parents too. I don’t believe in coincidences. These days, I can’t afford to.
Chapter 11
It’s a lovely spot, a quiet place. Situated on one of the highest spots in Glasgow, the cemetery is a walled oasis away from the bustle of the city and is lined with trees and flowers. Wild rabbits play tag along the stones.
Finding the grave, I kneel down and place the bouquet of wild flowers in the vase. Mum preferred wildflowers to “shop-bought ones.”
“I’m sorry. I tried, I really tried.”
The words spill out as I fall forward into the grass, hating myself for breaking my promise not to cry. A crow sitting on a nearby gravestone stares at me with its cold, beady eyes.
My body’s shaking as I haul myself to my feet, not caring that my tights are torn and it’s so cold, the draught’s going up my leg. There are two names on the gravestone, but soon they’ll be joined by a third—Shug. Only it won’t say Shug, it’ll say Hugh.
He’s always hated his name, but it’s the one our parents gave him, so he’s stuck with it now. For eternity.
Chapter 12
As I lie back on the couch, I tense up, terrified of letting go. Dr. Bowen has already explained to me that hypnosis is simply a state of deep relaxation and not mind control. She told me that afterwards I’d remember everything I said. But I’m scared about not being in control. I need to be in control because I’m already unraveling and I’m worried I’ll end up back in Parkview Hospital.
I ask her a question. If she gives me the wrong answer, I’m getting out of here. “But will it help me remember?”
Despite a multitude of questions, she’s unflustered. “There are no guarantees, but I’ve helped patients remember things before. The police have called me in on a few criminal cases.” She watches me with almond eyes that seem to stare right into my soul. “If you do remember anything helpful about your attackers, you will go to the police?”
Go to the police? Why would I do that? This is my chance to get revenge.
“Yes,” I lie.
Lying is starting to come as easily to me these days as violent thoughts.
“Very well.” She leans back in her chair. “Shall we begin?”
I tell her I’m ready, but the truth is, inside I’m ignoring the voice in my head telling me to leave, because no good can come of this. And I’m scared at the thought of reliving what happened even although Dr. Bowen assures me that I won’t feel the same fear and she can “bring me back” at any time.
Listening to her soothing words, a state of calm comes over me, and I feel more relaxed than I have for a long time.
“What’s happening to you, Nancy?”
“They’re laughing as they do disgusting things to me…things that hurt…I’m begging them to stop, trying to make eye contact, because they’ve gagged me.”
Dr. Bowen’s soothing voice cuts in. “You’re safe, Nancy. No one can hurt you now. You’re in my office, lying on my couch. We can stop at any time. Do you want to stop, Nancy?”
The tightness in my chest eases. “No,” I say, my voice a long way off.
“Move on, Nancy, to a time when those men have stopped hurting you. Tell me what’s happening now. What can you see? What can you hear?”
“I’m dying. The tall one stabbed me, a few times. They felt like punches, but I looked down and saw the knife. The men are talking as though I’m not even there. They know I’m dying…”
“Nancy, it’s okay. You didn’t die. You survived, and now you’re safe, in this room with me. Take a few deep breaths. Relax.”
I do as she says, and the tension in my body eases.
“Can you see their faces?”
“No, they’re wearing masks. Ski masks.”
“Nancy, listen to those voices. How do they sound? What are they saying?”
“They’re laughing and joking about the night they’d planned. They’re talking about getting Pete a canary.”
“Have they taken off their masks, Nancy?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see. They’v
e got their backs to me. They’re leaving.”
“What’s happening now, Nancy? What do you see?”
“My phone. It’s under the table. The phone fell. I need to reach it, but I’m scared. They might see me. If they do…”
A wail erupts from deep inside me.
Dr. Bowen’s calm voice drifts through. “But they don’t see you, Nancy, because you survived. You’re here, in this room with me, and you’re safe.”
Later, as I make my way back to my car, flurries of tears sting my eyes. I’d pinned my hopes on remembering something, anything that could help me track down those monsters. But the one thing I did remember was utterly useless.
We lived in a city full of men with the name Pete, and loads of folk had canaries. My one chance of remembering something that would lead me to those men and I’d come up with nothing of any use.
What did I do now?
Chapter 13
“We’ll get Pete a canary.”
When Dr. Bowen put me under, I’d heard one of them say that. But what good was remembering something as trivial as that? How would that help me track them down?
After the hypnotherapist session, my head felt as if it’d been stomped on, and last night I hadn’t slept. Instead, I’d paced up and down, chattering away to myself like one of the demented patients in the psychiatric hospital before they managed to get the right dose for their meds. I kept saying the same phrase aloud, repeating it like a mantra, hoping for a moment of blinding insight into how I could use that snatch of conversation to find either man.
Nothing came floating to the surface in the quagmire of my mind. Whatever hope I’d had before the hypnotherapy session had been snuffed out.
Pinning a large piece of paper to the wall, I started to brainstorm. At the top of the paper, I wrote canary, then I jotted down anything I associated with the word. Nothing that came to me was too silly or obscure.
Hell To Pay (Crime Files Book 1) Page 4