The short scissor blades cut slowly through the cotton. The repetitive opening and closing action of fingers and thumb caused a dull ache in his fingers. By the time he'd finished, his hand was throbbing and the pain was making him angry. He placed the scissors back in the bowl. With stiff fingers, he tied a knot in the severed shirtsleeve. When he pulled the ends tight, the fabric felt strong. He relaxed, snapped his wrists, relaxed, snapped his wrists. He imagined standing behind her, the shirtsleeve wrapped around her neck, the knot crushing her windpipe. He imagined hearing her cough and splutter, stumbling backwards as she gasped for air. He wiped his face on the cuff of Eddie's sleeve, rolled it up and stuffed it in his pocket.
He needn't have bothered.
When he returned to the sitting room, she was standing in the alcove gazing out of the bay window at the tenement block opposite. She had put on a CD. She behaved as if she lived here. Her head was lowered and her hips were rolling with the music. Louis Jordan was singing "There Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens."
Robin fumbled for the strip of cloth in his pocket. Sweat on his forehead gathered and cooled and began to itch as he edged past the bookcase, past the spot where Don's unconscious body must have fallen, beyond the part of the floor covered by the rug and onto bare floorboards that creaked the moment he set foot on them.
Still she didn't hear him. Her head stayed down, slowly moving from side to side as she listened to the music.
He shifted his weight and shuffled a step forward, wrapping an end of the sleeve around the knuckles of each hand. Another step. The cotton was stretched tight enough to trampoline a bullet. He couldn't do this. He couldn't bring himself to kill her. She was no more than four feet away now, the hem of her skirt rising on the right as her left knee bent. He inched closer, the ringing in his ears drowning out the song on the stereo. Closer. Still closer. He could feel the heat of her body.
His heart hammered in his chest. He heard this morning's newsreader saying, "…has died." Has died.
Robin looped the makeshift ligature around her neck. The instant Eddie's sleeve touched her neck she yelled. Instinct launched her forward, away from her attacker. A waft of White Musk haemorrhaged from her skin.
She croaked, "Robin." She lurched forward, one foot dangling in midair as he held her back. "Help. Robin."
He slid the cuff end of the sleeve over the shoulder and pulled it through the gap underneath, as if he was tying a shoelace. She cried out. He pulled both ends until the muscles in his arms burned. He dragged her back towards him, fingers whitening as they gripped the fabric. The pain in his right wrist flared and he struggled to hold on.
"I know about you and Eddie," he said in her ear. For a moment she was still. Then a quiet growl came from her throat and she lunged forward. Quickly, he changed his grip. The pain eased momentarily. "Please be still," he said as he crushed her throat. The pain flooded back and his vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes.
She struggled for a while longer, silent now, her cries choked off. Eventually she sank to her knees.
He pulled harder, crying out as pain tore at his fingers. Her hands clutched feebly at her throat and he jerked his wrists sideways, again and again, until her hands fell away. He yelled as he made one final effort to force her to be still. Her arms jiggled puppet-like by her sides. He held on. In his right arm every muscle, every sinew, every tendon was on fire. Still he held on. Her arms stopped moving. He waited. Longer. Finally he let go. Her head cracked off the floor when she fell forward.
At last she was still. It was over.
He stumbled towards the CD player, his legs barely supporting him, and turned it off. In the silence he said, "What have I done?"
Nobody answered.
Robin sat on the floor, massaging his fingers. He stared at the body. There was something he had to do now, but for the moment he'd forgotten what it was. After a while, he stopped rubbing his fingers. It was doing no good. He dragged himself towards her, stretched out his hand and touched the back of her knee. His hand slid up her leg and his fingers stroked the bare flesh of her thigh. She was cold. Her skin felt like wet clay. Standing up, he placed one foot either side of her and wriggled his hands underneath her stomach. My God, she was heavy. It was as if somebody had filled her tiny frame with cement. Because of his sore hand, he had to bear most of the weight with just his left. Breathing hard, using his right hand as a guide, he rolled her onto her back.
Her forehead had hit the floor hard. Around the left temple and under the eyebrow a swelling had already begun. A canopy over her closed eye. Blood had congealed in her left nostril and the tip of her tongue protruded through pale blue lips.
Strangling her was the easy part.
He tugged the blouse out of her skirt and started to undo the buttons. His fingertips tingled, as if his hand had been immersed wrist deep in snow and was now warming up. He tore at her blouse. Buttons leaped onto the rug and spun on the floorboards. Auburn down coated her pale stomach. He brushed the fine hairs, fingertips prickling, then reached into his pocket and dug out his knife.
He made a tiny incision above her navel, blanking out the pain in his fingers as he forced the blade into her skin. He cut her again. A trickle of blood. No more than a scratch. Once more. Not deep. A thin dark wavy line.
His hand was shaking uncontrollably. The knife fell from his grasp. Bending over her stomach he pressed his lips to the first of the three cuts. His tears dripped onto her belly. It was vital that he finish what he'd begun. He stared at his hands, scrutinising his long, thin pianist's fingers. He couldn't do it. These useless hands that strangled her were not prepared to mutilate her body.
He pulled the blouse over her stomach. The police could work this one out any way they liked. She's dead. Carol is dead. Do you hear me? The voice screamed at him: Your wife is dead. What have you done? When he looked across at her, he thought he saw her stomach rise under the loose blouse. It was happening again. Fear grabbed hold of him. He started to choke on the smell of Hilda Pearce's perfume. Leeches clung to the insides of his lungs. He ran towards the door. He had to get out. Now.
He didn't quite make it.
10:53 am
So Cooper wasn't likely to be much help. At any rate, if he knew anything he wasn't admitting it. Still, Pearce wasn't too concerned. Not yet. You didn't spend ten years in Barlinnie without making a few useful contacts. After he'd checked on Pete Thompson he'd get in touch with J-Laing or Big Dunc McNeil. If there was anything those two didn't know about Edinburgh's underworld, it very likely hadn't happened yet.
Shortarse looked as out of place behind the reception desk in the massage parlour as he had the first time round. The little man gave Pearce his best sneer and said, "You again."
Pearce walked straight past him.
"Hey!" Shortarse scrabbled out of his seat. "Hey! Where you going?" Dumpy hands reached for the telephone.
Pearce strode down the corridor and opened the door to Thompson's office.
"Stop." Shortarse sprinted towards him and grabbed his arm. Pearce swung round, fist clenched. The little man let go of his arm and took a step back. "Hey," he said, the muscles in his cheek twitching.
Wearing the same suit as yesterday, Tony was sitting behind Thompson's desk. Ankles crossed, the heel of one polished shoe scuffed the surface of the desk as his leg bent slightly. A bunch of papers sat next to the phone. He spoke into the receiver: "Yeah, I've got to go." He raised his left hand and beckoned Pearce over. "Speak to you later," he said, placing the handset in its cradle.
Pearce approached the desk. Shortarse trailed behind, complaining to Tony. "He barged right past me. I told him to stop."
Pearce glanced at the bank of monitors. Their blank screens indicated that somebody had forgotten to switch them on. Or that somebody had decided to switch them off. He wondered if the girls knew they were no longer under surveillance. Swapping sexual favours for money had to be hard enough without knowing you were being watched. Then again, maybe they fo
und some comfort in the fact that their every move was being monitored. Maybe they'd feel insecure if they knew no one was keeping an eye on them. Or maybe their lives were so sad they didn't give a shit either way.
Reflected in one of the light grey screens, Pearce saw Tony fold his arms.
"It's okay," Tony said to Shortarse. Tony's jacket looked a couple of sizes too small for him. It would have fitted nicely when he was fourteen.
"He wouldn't listen." The little man nodded like a wind-up toy. "I told him to stop."
"It's okay."
"It's not okay. Look what he did to Mr Thompson." Shortarse looked at Pearce, his finger jabbing the air. "You—" His bloodless lips formed a puckered O.
Pearce faced him and said, "Piss off."
The little man's hand dropped to his side. He was breathing fast, head still bobbing up and down. He looked at Tony. Tony leaned back in Pete Thompson's chair and looked straight back at Shortarse. Shortarse looked at Pearce. Pearce looked at Tony and grinned. Tony grinned back. Shortarse turned and marched out the door. He slammed it shut behind him.
Pearce said, "Morning."
Tony swung his legs off the desk. "Grab a chair." The palm of his right hand drew circles on his left.
Pearce sat down, saying nothing.
Tony clapped his hands once, held his hands together, then released them. After a moment he formed a fist with his right hand and began rubbing his knuckles against the palm of his left. "What can I do for you?"
"Where's your boss?"
Tony said, "Read about your mother in the paper." He looked up. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Pearce said. "Where is he?"
Slowly, Tony stood up. "Mr Thompson decided to quit."
"Leave the business?"
"Yeah." Tony picked a biro off the desk and pulled the top off it.
"You want to elaborate?"
Tony shrugged.
"It just doesn't seem likely."
Tony said, "No?" He put the top back on the pen and dropped it on the desk.
"I wouldn't have said so."
Tony hunched his shoulders and breathed out. "I suppose it's fair to say that he required a little bit of persuasion."
"From you?"
"I did sort of steer him in the right direction. Last night. Helped him see how things stood." Tony kicked his chair out from the desk and sat down again. "You might have done enough. I don't know. I had to be sure."
"You sure now?"
"Yeah." Tony looked at his knuckles, then back at Pearce. "Mr Thompson's grown tired of Edinburgh. He's developed a profound desire to travel. Tonight I'm helping him pack."
"Where's he going?"
Tony picked up the biro again and grabbed a piece of paper from the pile sitting next to the phone. "He hadn't made up his mind when I left. But he knows the score."
Pearce raised his eyebrows.
"He can go anywhere he wants." Tony started doodling on the paper. "As long as it's outside a thirty mile radius of Edinburgh."
Pearce said, "What about his flat?"
"Not a problem. He rents."
"And his job?"
"He resigned due to ill health." Tony tugged the lapel of his jacket. "You're talking to the Acting Manager." He pulled at his sleeve. "Until further notice."
"Congratulations." Pearce stood.
"Thing is," Tony said, balling his fist and coughing into it. "I hate to bring this up. But, the way it is, you see, he doesn't have any money, so I've had to lend him some."
"How come?"
"You nicked it."
"You saying a man like Thompson doesn't have any spare cash?"
"I didn't believe him either. But he insisted. Matter of salvaging some pride, I think. I gave him a hundred just to get him to piss off."
"Fair enough," Pearce said. "Split it, then, if you're okay with fifty."
"Fine with me."
Pearce reached into his back pocket.
Tony changed the subject. "How's Ailsa?"
"Good."
"And Becky?"
"Better." Pearce felt awkward all of a sudden.
"Good kid."
"Haven't met her yet. She's in Glasgow. At her aunt's."
"Oh, right. Well." Tony spread his fingers.
As Pearce pulled the cash out of his jeans, he dislodged something from his pocket. He tried to grab it as it fell to the floor. He missed. He bent down and picked up the business card the man with the bandaged nose had given him yesterday outside the post office. The card had fallen face down. Written on the back in blue ink were four words that sent Pearce's pulse racing. His head felt light and for a moment he thought he might faint. He leaned on the desk. Did the note mean what he thought it meant? He steadied himself and read it again. It couldn't mean anything else. It could only refer to his mother's killer. The man with the bandaged nose had written: I KNOW HIS NAME.
10:55 am
Climbing through blackness. Slipping back down. Slipping…
Where am I? Okay. Think. Heaven's sake. Sore hip. Lying down. Hard surface. Floor. Distant lights. Flickering. Come on. Push. Too heavy. Too dark. Slipping...
Stabbing me. Bright lights piercing me. Stabbing my brain. Losing focus. Slipping…
Music in the dark. Heavy limbs. Voices. Danger. Quiet. Stay quiet. Skull latticed with pain. Need to cry out. Mustn't. Rhythm. Rhythm to the pain. Breathe with it. Don't move. Don't let them know I'm awake. Listen to the singing. Listen to the voice saying, "Help. Robin."
Eyelids. Camera shutters. Open. Snapshot. Bright, bright, bright. Close. Don't move. NO. Breathe. Again. Open. Click. Close. No Eddie. Robin isn't Eddie. Eddie isn't Robin. Robin is…Yes. A noose. Around Carol Wren's neck. Carol, the wife. Eddie, the lover. Make the connection. Got it. Got their secrets. Thanks, Robin.
He blinked again. His head felt like he'd rammed it into a brick wall, taken a step back and butted the wall again. He let his eyelids drop. Could he believe what he just saw?
More words. Something about Eddie. Pleading. Then, clearly, Robin said, "Please be still." Don opened his eyes a fraction. Robin was strangling her. Something cracked. Floorboard, kneecap, skull? Don couldn't tell. Then, panting. After a while, footsteps trailed away. The music stopped. Don's scrotum tingled. Maybe Robin was going to try to strangle him now.
Robin said, "What have I done?"
Don wanted to answer him. Muffled footsteps slithered across the floor. Back towards Don. Robin fondled Carol Wren's leg. He apologised. But for what? What he was about to do?
Nothing as straightforward as murder, apparently.
Robin stood over Carol and turned her over, grunting under the weight. He ripped her blouse open. Took a hunting knife out of a leather sheath and started cutting her stomach. Not like that. He was producing nothing more than scratches. The blade had to penetrate. It had to plunge in so deep that you needed both hands to carve out each stroke of the four letters. Don wanted to tell him. No, show him. Jump out and…
Don's head buzzed. Copycat. His arm twitched. This was exciting.
Robin spoiled it by collapsing on top of Carol Wren in tears.
Disappointing, Robin. Eddie would have done it. Eddie would have done it well. You could see it in his eyes when he hit me with the gun. Desire. Pleasure. He has what it takes.
Don closed his eyes as Robin swung round. Relaxed, he felt Robin press the knife into his palm. Still relaxed, he felt Robin fold his fingers round the handle and give his hand a friendly pat. Now with the knife firmly in his grip Don considered slashing the pathetic creature's face, but Robin had already scurried away.
Thunder rumbled in Don's ears. A blanket of nausea fell over him and he sank to the floor. Hammers pounded his skull. A vice squeezed his brain. Shit.
After a while, he raised himself onto his hands and knees and scrabbled over to Carol, ignoring the pain pulsing through his body like a surging electrical current. He pulled back her blouse, revealing three shallow cuts. Squiggly red lines that ran down towards her pubic hai
r. Robin hadn't got far with his spelling. The L was complete, albeit faint and much too small. He had carved a semi-circle of the O. The O should be a rectangle, though. An oval was too difficult to form properly at the necessary depth. Straight lines were much easier. Especially when…
Carol Wren coughed.
At first he thought he'd imagined it, but, as he stared at her, her chest bounced and she coughed again. Her whole body stiffened. She wheezed as she drew breath. Don's head cleared. He shuffled behind her and grabbed both ends of the cord still wrapped around her neck. Her eyes sprang open and she looked at him, confused and terrified, pupils darting from side to side. She opened her mouth to scream. He pulled with all his strength. Amputated her scream. She beat the floor with her heels. Kicked a shoe off. Her eyes begged him to stop.
He stopped only when the ligature had bitten so deeply into her neck that in places the white cloth was hardly visible.
Carol Wren's eyes bulged. Red-flecked. No longer begging him to stop.
Don lifted her head out of his lap. He moved his legs from under her and gently lowered her head to the floor. He stood, slid out of his coat, removed his shoes and socks. She was dead now. It was unlikely there would be much blood, but caution never hurt. He didn't want to end up walking home with blood all over his clothes. Bare feet cold on the floorboards, he stepped back onto the rug and pulled his jumper over his head. He took off his shirt and removed his trousers. Almost free. Nobody here to see his scars. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his underpants. Stopped. Ridiculous to think that he could strip naked. He unhooked his thumbs. Ridiculous. It didn't matter that she was dead. She was here.
He prised her legs apart, knelt between them and opened her blouse.
Two-Way Split Page 12