‘I take it this gang’s now defunct?’ Monica asked, remembering MacGregor’s last conviction was thirty-five years previously.
‘Far as I can gather, they were called the Red Death. Last time I could find them mentioned was in 1985 – some kind of gang fight down in Glasgow.’ He held up his phone to show a picture of a painted design on the back of a leather jacket: a pale face, the forehead smeared red with blood. ‘They were quite active from the late 60s until then though. Thought they were Scotland’s answer to the fucking Manson family for a while.’
‘The Manson family?’
Crawford nodded to DC Khan beside him. She cleared her throat, opened a folder on her desk and pulled out a handful of prints. She laid one on the table, which showed a blood-splattered room.
‘Members of the gang murdered a middle-aged couple, the MacIntoshes. August 1980. They lived out in the sticks, a place called … Strathconon?’ Khan said, uncertain of the pronunciation of the unfamiliar name.
Monica nodded. She knew Strathconon. One of the glens that ran through the mountains to the west of Inverness, along with Glen Affric, Glen Mullardoch and Glen Turrit.
‘They were a well-to-do family, members of the local church. They were protective of their only child, a daughter called Beverly. Kept her quite sheltered,’ Khan said. ‘One day she runs into this gang, the Red Death, at a Highland games dance, of all things. Beverly ends up going off with them—’
‘On the back of a bike, like in a perfume advert,’ Crawford interrupted, unable to resist the opportunity to share the dramatic picture he’d thought up. ‘Except without the glamorous ending. Because in a month she’s addicted to smack, living back at their castle—’
‘Their castle?’
‘One of the gang was landed gentry gone off the rails – had a little castle on the west coast. They’ve got no money though so how are they going to afford to live?’
‘They decide to rob the MacIntoshes?’
Khan cleared her throat. ‘It’s thought that in the early hours of Saturday the ninth of August 1980 members of the gang entered the MacIntosh home. They found Mr and Mrs MacIntosh asleep upstairs and demanded money from them. They believed Mr MacIntosh had a safe on the property. He denied having a safe or any substantial sums in the house. They tortured and killed him, then his wife to keep her quiet. Afterwards they smeared blood over the walls, satanic symbols to make it appear the motivation had been an occult ritual.’
Khan reached for the photos Crawford had pulled from the file and slid them across the table. Monica looked down at the clichéd hallmarks of a supposedly occult crime: the pentagram drawn on a wooden floor, HELTER SKELTER smeared in blood on a white wall.
‘The daughter, Beverly, pleaded guilty to it all, served life for it,’ Crawford said. ‘They could never prove who else was involved, and Beverly wasn’t talking. She said she was still in love with one of the leaders of the gang. Never stopped asking him to visit her. One Francis MacGregor.’ Crawford turned over a piece of paper and held it up for them to see. It showed a black-and-white photo of a man’s face. The archetypal rebel. Shoulder-length hair, a thick moustache, the narrow face and high cheekbones of a Highlander.
‘We already knew that MacGregor had a criminal past.’ Fisher spoke up for the first time. ‘Granted this is serious, but we’re still talking about something from almost forty years ago. How’s it going to help us find him? Or explain why a man he’s just bought a business from has turned up dead?’
Crawford dropped his eyes to the table. ‘Like I said, MacGregor’s hard to track down. Supposedly got a string of houses as well as the businesses he owns. They’re in other names though – relatives of people who were part of the gang, that sort of thing.’
‘Do we have an address for any of the ex-members? Anyone who’d be able to set us in the right direction?’ Fisher asked, hand going to adjust his glasses.
‘I’ve been asking around, contacted a couple of businesses he’s supposed to own,’ Crawford said, ‘but no one wants to talk about him. No surprise, if what happened at the garage is any indication.’
For a moment none of them spoke, as if their minds had all returned to that blood-splattered workshop.
‘Do you have a list of businesses that he owns?’ Monica asked finally. Khan nodded and opened up a document on her laptop, then turned it round for her to see. And as she scanned down the list of names Monica realised that the answer was right there in front of her.
CHAPTER 50
The cold realisation that Marcus and the Doctor were never going to let her out of there alive should have been terrifying, but it gradually seemed to galvanise Annabelle. As if her mind could accept that a certain amount of misfortune was acceptable and correct, a little corner of her mind might even have believed that she deserved to have her leg amputated. But keeping her there for ever, never letting her out …
Well, it can’t be helped. The voice came into Annabelle’s head so clearly that she actually glanced around the room. As if Miss Albright might somehow have really appeared down there with her. And with the memory of her elderly neighbour she couldn’t help thinking of Mr Pepper, picture him sitting impatiently by the door, growling with anticipation ahead of his walk. He would be so bored by now, all those days (Annabelle couldn’t be certain how many had passed) without a walk.
‘Scott?!’ Annabelle was startled by the sound of her own voice. But maybe shouting for him again really was a good idea. Maybe Scott could help her somehow? Maybe they could help each other? ‘Are you there?! My name’s Annabelle.’ She paused, the words echoing back at her in the confined space. She listened hard, hoping to hear a response. Something that would show she wasn’t entirely alone. There was nothing though. No screams, no muffled shouts, just the loneliness of emptiness at the bottom of the world.
Well, it can’t be helped, the voice in her head repeated. And slowly Annabelle understood what Miss Albright was trying to tell her. If she ever wanted to see her and Mr Pepper again. If she ever wanted to breathe fresh air or see the sun again, she was going to have to make it happen herself. This was a terrifying thought. There had been times when she couldn’t even imagine leaving her flat or walking down the street alone. How was she supposed to get herself out of here without even her phone to help when her last attempt had cost her leg?
She glanced around the horrible room again, at the squares of carpet on the wall and the metal door. How easily it had begun to feel like a home, like her bedroom when she was a child. Where things were turned on their head. Her parents screaming at each other meant they were in love. Smiling and not speaking meant Annabelle was perfect, while sharing what was in her mind seemed to show her parents just how selfish and rotten she was on the inside. Until all those thoughts wouldn’t quite fit in her brain, like they needed to leak out. That day in the park when her dad had slapped her. She remembered the feeling of shame, the embarrassment at how much trouble she had caused, but another memory lingered. She understood for the first time how that moment had planted a seed: the shock and pain of the slap had calmed her mind. Annabelle felt a moment of excitement as another linked memory bubbled up. When she was twelve, years after Mum and Dad had finally split up, sitting in the corner of the dining hall at school on her own, trying hard to be invisible. The tip of the pencil had pierced her thumb. She hadn’t even realised she was squeezing it that hard until she felt the blood, saw the black fleck of graphite embedded under her skin. When the pain started it had an unexpected effect – thoughts and feelings seemed to ebb into the background. Just like all those years before, when her father’s slap had stilled her mind. Later in her bedroom that night she used one of her dad’s old razor blades which she had found in the bathroom cupboard to scrape at her arm until it bled, a first spot of red on her smooth skin.
As she remembered the blood, Annabelle pictured Scott’s knife again. You already know how to cut, you already know how to stab, and if you ever want to get out of here you have to get that knif
e.
CHAPTER 51
After looking for him at The Clach and then at his flat up in Hilton, Monica and Crawford eventually found Big Bill Macdonald in the driveway of his elderly mother’s house.
It was late morning, one of those spring days in the Highlands when the huge blue skies streaked by cloud carry the promise of youth. Or nostalgia for youth, Monica had thought as she’d climbed out of the Volvo and looked warily up and down the row of brown semi-detached council-built houses. Less than a minute’s walk round the corner from her mum’s in the Marsh and far too close to home. She leaned over the same metal gate as she had thirty years before as a skinny fourteen-year-old with no clue about the world. Watching as Bill Macdonald worked at a car again. And she wondered for a moment just how the hell she’d let her life bring her right back here?
As the thought drifted up a memory rose with it. Of her father, dressed in a white shirt and his work trousers. Standing at that corner one evening at dusk. She must have forgotten the time, been late home from school. Because when she finally noticed him standing there he was watching as she laughed at something Bill had said. Pointing at the watch on his opposite wrist with his thick index finger. Watching all the time as she turned away, hurried along the road towards him.
She suppressed the uncomfortable memory, cleared her throat. Bill turned from the car engine he was pondering, his wide face lighting up when he saw her.
‘Monica! I tried phoning you at your mum’s.’ His initial enthusiasm fell away when his eyes landed on Crawford, a few paces along the road from her, staring over the fence himself. Bill straightened and slowly wiped his hands on a rag then dropped the bonnet closed on the Ford Focus. ‘Just a fuse that had gone. Mum always assumes it’s serious,’ he muttered as his eyes went from Crawford to Monica.
‘My mum told me you called … I’m here about something else though.’
‘I need to get cleaned up for work.’
‘It won’t take long.’ Monica watched as Bill ran a hand across the blond stubble on his face. ‘You’ve managed The Clach a few years now?’
‘That’s right,’ he replied slowly. ‘Since 2010.’
‘Bit of a change. Don’t know how they dragged you away from under those car bonnets.’ Monica tried to force some lightness into her voice.
Bill coughed and glanced over at the open front door of his mother’s house. ‘Rough on your body. Years working on engines.’
‘Your dad liked motorbikes when he was alive. Didn’t he?’ This time Bill didn’t reply, probably sensing where the conversation was headed. ‘We’re trying to get hold of someone. A suspect in a serious case we’re investigating. A man called Francis MacGregor. I think you might know him.’ Monica watched the pupils in Bill’s blue eyes widen almost imperceptibly. ‘He owns The Clach, doesn’t he?’
‘You tell me,’ Bill said finally with a laugh. ‘I just run the thing. Someone different above me every other year.’ A schoolboy caught cheating, looking for the joke that will make things OK. Monica would have felt sorry for him if the memory of the scene at the garage wasn’t so fresh in her mind.
‘I wouldn’t be hassling you if this wasn’t extremely serious, Bill.’
‘I wish I could help you, but like I say I just work at the bar. I’m sorry.’ He shrugged and turned to go inside.
‘You called me about your son,’ Monica said, raising her voice slightly. ‘He’s looking at jail? Could be a long stretch too.’ She could feel Crawford’s eyes on her face.
Bill paused. ‘He was stupid. He’s not—’
‘It’ll be tough for a sensitive boy like him. What’s he looking at? Five years at least? Barlinnie first, then over to Peterhead.’
‘The solicitor said he might have a chance.’
‘I can try to help, but just give me an address for MacGregor. Give me something.’ Monica hated making promises of this kind, but sometimes a word in a prosecutor’s ear could make a difference. And owing Bill a favour would be worth it if it meant MacGregor was locked up.
Bill stared at her. Ready to turn and storm off into the house. Instead he stepped closer to the gate until his face was inches from hers and she could smell his cheap deodorant. ‘There are people who would put me in a hole in the ground, just for talking about Francis MacGregor,’ he whispered, then glanced up and down the street as if one of those people might be there now, watching them. ‘Give me your phone.’
Monica patted herself down and pulled it out of her coat pocket, unlocked it and handed it to him. ‘This is the number he calls me on.’ Bill punched in a series of digits then handed it back. ‘Maybe someone’ll push your buttons one day. Find out where you hurt and poke a finger into it.’
‘I’ve been there. Believe me,’ she said softly, searching for eye contact. He refused the connection though and shook his head.
‘You’ve not always been spotless yourself, Monica, from what I’ve heard. Not you or your dad.’ He stepped back, and Monica found herself looking away along the street towards her childhood home. For a moment she almost expected to see the ghost of her father watching her, while by her side she sensed Crawford glancing away. Bill’s comment must have chimed with whatever rumours he had heard about her. Monica turned back to Bill, but he was already walking into the house.
CHAPTER 52
To Annabelle’s surprise, the next time the door swung open Marcus wasn’t holding a tray. Instead he had a pair of metal crutches tucked under one arm and a plastic bag in his other hand. He set the crutches by the door and emptied the contents of the bag onto the floor. It took Annabelle a moment to recognise the alien artefacts. Her own tracksuit, pants, T-shirt and one of her white Nike trainers. The clothes had been packed up safely in the boot of the BMW on the day that she crashed.
‘It’s time to start on your rehabilitation. The Doctor says you need to work on using your good leg to get around before it stiffens up and you lose mobility,’ he said gruffly. ‘Put these on.’
He handed the clothes to her, and Annabelle experienced a moment of pure joy when she felt the soft fabric of her own T-shirt. The tracksuit that still smelled of the special eco washing liquid she used. After all that time in the horrible nylon nightie. For a moment even the terrible knowledge of what she had to do to Marcus was forgotten as she pulled the clothes on quickly while he turned away pointedly to give her privacy.
‘Now your foot.’ Marcus turned back and helped her to the edge of the bed. Then slid her remaining foot into a soft white sock and carefully into the trainer. It felt strange, her foot encased in fabric and rubber after being bare for so long. She glanced at the empty leg of the cotton trousers. Quickly tied it into a loose knot where her knee had been.
‘It’ll feel weird at first, trying to balance with only one leg, but you’ll get there. The exercise will help with your healing too, pump the blood around your body more.’
Annabelle stared at the crutches he’d propped beside the chair, and for the first time the euphoria over having her own clothes back was tempered with disquiet. Why give them back? Why did they want her to use crutches? It made absolutely no sense. She knew they weren’t going to let her out. Unless it was a trick? Giving her something so they can take it away again? So it hurt her twice as much?
But Marcus was already sliding the crutches up under her arms and directing her fingers around the handles. ‘There you go,’ he said, taking a few steps back to the opposite side of the room. ‘Start walking towards me.’
‘I can’t …’ Annabelle began to protest, suddenly uncertain.
‘Come on,’ Marcus said, holding his arms out to her. ‘You can do it.’
Hesitantly Annabelle edged to the side of the bed until her weight began to settle onto the crutches. She swung her remaining leg towards the floor until her toes touched the ground, then pushed forward and straightened up, certain she would topple over, but somehow she succeeded in holding herself upright. For a few seconds she didn’t move. The handles dug uncomfortably into her han
ds.
‘Now take a step. Move one of the crutches at a time.’ Marcus’s voice was uncharacteristically patient, but firm.
‘I can’t,’ Annabelle said, her anger actually flaring now at how easy he made it sound. As if he had any experience of learning to walk with only one leg. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘Just try a couple of steps and I’ll catch you if you stumble. You have to exercise. It’s important.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped, then moved one crutch forward a few inches. Felt the thing shake as she adjusted her weight and moved the other one up beside the first. Then she carefully hopped her good leg forward.
‘Well done!’ Marcus shouted, his voice odiously patronising, as if congratulating a three-year-old for eating a whole spoonful of breakfast cereal. ‘Another one. You can do it.’
Annabelle swore under her breath but forced herself on again. Stepping carefully across the room as her hands and arms began to shake with the effort, the pain where her leg had been intensifying.
‘One more!’
‘My leg hurts, I can’t,’ Annabelle said, her voice tearing up in frustrated rage.
‘Come on! I’ve got painkillers. We can go further once you’ve learned to walk properly.’
Annabelle swore again, but forced herself with shaking arms to move the crutches and swing her leg after them. This time the momentum was too much, and she toppled forward.
Marcus stepped in and caught her by the shoulders. He helped her back to bed and slipped the crutches off her arms. ‘Now you’ve started, the Doctor said it’ll only get easier.’ He tapped a couple of tablets out from a container and watched as Annabelle swallowed them with a mouthful of water from a bottle he handed her.
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