I removed my hand. He shrank back in his chair. Looked at her. Looked at me. Then back to her again. ‘I told you: I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
Alice stood. ‘And it was your ticket, wasn’t it? They were ignoring you here, making you cover stupid kids’ projects, and livestock marts, and jumble sales, and am-dram shows. Didn’t realize you were a proper journalist. But they sat up and took notice when you got those letters, didn’t they? Saw what you were really worth. That you deserved better.’
‘I don’t—’
I smiled. ‘We spoke to the guy in the mail room, Micky.’
He blinked. Licked his lips. ‘Look, it… I didn’t think it would really matter. It was just a bit of creative licence, OK? They—’
His head snapped back, blood sparkling in the air like tiny rubies caught in the overhead light. Then thump, he was lying on his back in the tipped-over chair, legs in the air, both hands clutched over his broken nose, while his colleagues clapped and cheered.
I shook my hand – the knuckles ached like burning gravel, but it was worth it.
Wee Free McFee stood. Looked down at his daughter for a moment, then slipped away from her bedside.
Silence smothered the High-Dependency Unit – its eight beds filled with women wired up to machines, or hidden behind drawn screens.
Jessica was pale as ice, hooked up to a drip. Her mouth hung open as she slept.
I tilted my head towards the bed. ‘How is she?’
‘Better.’ He ran a finger across his grey moustache, putting it into line. ‘You got her back.’ Wee Free stuck out a hand. I took it and he nodded, those hooded eyes staring at me, like they were trying to peel the skin from my face and see what was underneath. ‘I owe you.’
‘Do me a favour then: Leave Ruth Laughlin alone. She’ll end up in a secure facility for the rest of her life. She’s not responsible for what she did.’
His mouth tightened.
‘No eye for an eye, or tooth for a tooth, or anything else.’
Wee Free turned, walked back to the bed. ‘I’ll pray on it.’
Better than nothing…
Alice was waiting for me outside the ward. ‘Well?’
‘He’ll pray on it.’
‘Oh…’ She fell into step beside me. ‘It’s really not Ruth’s fault. She’s a severely damaged individual, it’s going to take years of therapy to get anywhere near the real her.’
Down the corridor to the lifts. I pressed the up button. ‘As long as Wee Free doesn’t get anywhere near the real her, we should be OK.’
Ping. A woman in a dressing gown and slippers stood in the corner, face to the wall, crying.
Alice’s hand reached out towards her, then curled back into itself. She looked away. Pressed the button for the next floor.
The doors slid shut.
The lift hummed and clanked its way up, to a soundtrack of stifled sobs.
I leaned on the rail around the inside. ‘Did she say why she’d trashed her own flat?’
‘She didn’t. Probably forgot to lock the door, and the local kids did the rest.’
Which explained where the antidepressants went. Little sods were probably trying to get high on them right now.
Ping. We stepped out, the woman stayed where she was, then the lift took her away again.
I pointed down the corridor. ‘Ward at the end.’
Flowers and mylar balloons surrounded the bed next to Shifty’s. All he had was a bottle of Lucozade and a copy of the Scottish Sun – ‘TV PSYCHOLOGIST SEX BEAST CHARGED WITH SIX RAPES’ above a grinning publicity shot of Dr Docherty.
A pad of gauze was bandaged over Shifty’s right eye, and his face was a little more slack and hollow than usual, swathed in bruises and scabs.
He was wearing the ‘nightwear’ set we’d bought him at the supermarket last night – a grey T-shirt with a picture of a cat’s face done up like the Obama ‘Hope’ poster on it.
Shifty blinked at me a couple of times with his good eye. Scowled. ‘Not so much as a bloody get-well-soon card, and this bastard,’ he pointed at the unconscious old man in the next bed, ‘has a whole bloody Clinton’s.’
I settled onto the edge of the bed.
Alice leaned over and gave Shifty a hug – tight enough to make him wince – then a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK! You look … terrible.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, seriously, you do. You look like someone’s run you over with a lawnmower. Are you feeling OK?’
He hunched his shoulders up around his ears. ‘No.’
A striped dressing gown was draped across the end of next door’s bed. We’d probably be back before the old bloke woke up, and if not: tough. I grabbed it and threw it to Shifty. ‘Come on, Billy no mates, we’re going visiting.’
‘Oh, bugger off.’
I pulled a little leather case out of my pocket and tossed it onto the bed. ‘You’ll need that too.’
He reached for it. Flipped it open, and squinted at the warrant card inside with his one good eye. ‘Why have you got my—’
‘Because – that’s why. Now, up!’
We helped him out of bed, wrangled his arms into the dressing gown. It was about three sizes too small, gaping open across his belly, but it’d have to do. I liberated the old guy’s tartan slippers too. ‘Put those on.’
The tartan shorts that came with the T-shirt stopped just above Shifty’s knees. His legs were crisscrossed with purple welts and sticking plasters.
He clutched the warrant card to his chest. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
The crying woman was gone from the lift as we rode up to the top floor.
Shifty picked at the stitching of the borrowed dressing gown. ‘I… Thanks.’
‘You’d do the same for me.’
Alice nodded. ‘All for one.’
The lift mechanism whirred and clanged.
He curled his top lip. ‘They’re releasing me later. Here’s a pack of antibiotics and some painkillers. Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.’
‘Do you want to stay at the flat? It’s paid up till the end of the month and Alice doesn’t want to go back there.’
A shudder rippled its way through Shifty’s body. ‘If I never set foot in Kingsmeath again it’ll be too soon.’
The number ten lit up on the board, the lift doors slid open and we stepped out onto the penthouse floor.
No cracked linoleum held together with duct tape here. Instead, there were carpet tiles, flowers in vases, and decent paintings on the walls. Quiet and exclusive. The scent of garlic and butter wafted down the corridor.
Shifty sniffed. ‘Bloody hell, it’s all right for some, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what you get for not having health insurance.’
The young bloke behind the teak reception desk, smiled at us, eyebrows raised, head on one side. ‘I’m sorry, but this floor is reserved for private—’
‘Police.’ I flashed my expired ID. ‘You have a patient here: one Mrs Maeve Kerrigan. Gunshot wound and her eye gouged out.’
‘Ah…’ He reached for the phone. ‘Perhaps I should just—’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t.’ I leaned in close and he shrank back. ‘Where?’
He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Room twenty.’
I limped down to the end of the corridor with Shifty and Alice in tow.
The rooms on either side were more like hotel suites – each had a little seating area with a couch and a coffee table, a large flatscreen TV, iPod dock, floor-to-ceiling windows, patio doors and a narrow balcony. Most of the occupants sat at their own little dining tables, eating whatever lunch was, with a view out over the city.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
Left at the end.
Eighteen.
Two men stood in the corridor. One tall with a ginger ponytail poking out from beneath a cr
own of white bandages, two big black eyes. The other was short and stocky, his scalp covered in tiny scars beneath the stubble. Just the one black eye for him, but he was on crutches – his shattered left leg encased in plaster from hip to toe.
Joseph and Francis.
Francis nodded. ‘’Spector.’
‘Francis.’
Joseph gave us a little smile. ‘Ah, Mr Henderson. I’m sorry to announce that our acquaintance must come to an end. Francis and I shall be taking our leave of Oldcastle and setting off for pastures new. What you might call the Costa del Far, Far Away.’
His partner nodded. ‘Spain, and that.’
I rolled my shoulders. ‘Worried about what’ll happen when I come after you?’
‘Oh, bless you, no. Let us just say that Mr Inglis is somewhat less than pleased with the result of our recent assignments for Mrs Kerrigan. He feels we should have been more rigorous in our protection of the organization as a whole.’ A shrug. A wince. ‘And so away we must go, before he decides an example needs to be made.’
I stepped in close. ‘Run far, and run fast. Because if you’re still here in five minutes I’m going to make good on my promise. Remember?’
The smile became a grin. ‘You’re going to break every one of my fingers and make me eat them?’
‘I told you not to touch her.’
‘Ah, Mr Henderson, I’m going to miss our little chats. They’ve been the highlight of my days.’ He held up a finger. ‘Francis, I believe it’s time for us to exit stage right. Say goodbye to Mr Henderson.’
A nod. ‘’Spector.’
And they were gone, the sound of Joseph’s crutches thunking against the carpet fading away down the corridor.
Shifty curled his hands into fists. ‘Did you see that? Like I wasn’t even bloody here. Should go after the bastards and rip their arms off.’
I pointed towards the door, two down on the left. ‘I’ve got something better in mind. Trust me.’
The sound of classical music came from the other side of the door. I didn’t bother knocking, just pulled it open and limped inside.
Mrs Kerrigan sat at her private dining table, head down, hands in her lap. A thick wad of gauze covered her right eye. The tape holding it in place looked a hell of a lot tidier than the stuff on Shifty’s head. Her right foot was wrapped in bandages from toe to ankle, just visible through the tail of a long silk dressing gown.
A thick fillet steak sat untouched on the plate in front of her.
The man sitting opposite shrugged. A sweep of grey hair lay across his collar, the top of his head freckly and pink where it had receded. Dark-blue pinstripe suit and white shirt, big antique watch on his thick wrist. Not the tallest of men, but broad, powerful. Andy Inglis.
His accent was solid Glaswegian shipyard. ‘Nothing personal.’
Mrs Kerrigan’s head dipped even further.
He pulled himself up to his full five four. Sighed. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
She raised one shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
Then he turned. Stared at me with his mouth hanging open. ‘Ash? Ash Henderson, you old bastardo!’ He came forward, much lighter on his feet than he looked. Skipped back a couple of paces, fists up, then forward again. Threw a couple of jabs that would’ve taken teeth with them if he’d been aiming. ‘Good to see you, man, when’d you get out?’
‘Sunday.’
‘You should’ve said! Got this great wee restaurant on Cairnbourne now, you should come: my treat.’
I looked past him. Mrs Kerrigan hadn’t moved. She reached up and wiped a hand across her good eye.
The smile on his face drooped a little. He nodded at Shifty. ‘This the boy?’
Shifty held out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector David Morrow.’
‘Good for you.’ Andy Inglis placed a hand in the small of my back and steered me out into the corridor. Lowered his voice. ‘Just between you and me—’
‘If it’s about the money, I haven’t got it. OK?’
His eyebrows went up. ‘Money?’
‘The thirty-two thousand. Mrs Kerrigan says I owe—’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulled his chin into his neck. ‘Ash, we wrote off your debt when your daughter died. You had enough on your plate without that.’
‘You…’ I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Knuckles aching as they snarled into fists. No debt. She stood there and pushed and gouged and lied.
‘Did ye really think I’d stop feckin’ with ye just because ye got out of prison?’
When I opened my eyes, Andy Inglis was frowning at me. ‘You OK?’
‘Thank you.’
He shook his head. ‘Nah, what are friends for?’ A hand like a wrecking ball patted me on the shoulder. Then he looked back towards Mrs Kerrigan’s room. ‘You here to arrest her, or kill her?’
‘She abducted and tortured a police—’
‘No skin off my nose either way.’ He marched away down the corridor. ‘Don’t forget: the Shoogly Goose, on Cairnbourne. You’ll love it.’
I stepped back into the room.
Shifty stood by the table, glowering down at the plate with its fillet, frites, and asparagus. A large glass of Shiraz on the side. ‘You know what I had for lunch? Cauliflower cheese. And it was beige.’
Mrs Kerrigan didn’t look up. ‘Yez’ve got a feckin’ cheek, showing yer faces.’
I swept my cane up, as if I was introducing a magic act. ‘Shifty, if you please.’
‘Pleasure.’ He cricked his thick neck from side to side. ‘Maeve Kerrigan, I’m arresting you for the torture and attempted murder of one Detective Inspector David Morrow. You do not have to say anything—’
‘Oh, grow the feck up.’ She picked up her knife and fork and carved off a sliver of steak. Inside it was almost raw. ‘Who the hell’s going to convict me? Yez’ve got no proof and no witnesses.’
I poked myself in the chest with a thumb. ‘I’m a witness.’
She smiled. ‘No yer not, Mr Henderson, because if ye were ye’d be worrying about yer family. Ye’d be worrying about where yer wife and brother had gone and what was going to happen to them. How many bits they’d end up in.’
‘Think that scares me?’
‘No?’
I gave her a smile back. ‘Shifty, there’s a missing accountant called Paul Manson buried in Moncuir Wood. She shot him. Twice. You’ll find the gun hidden under the floorboards of the old Keenan house just outside Logansferry. It’s got her prints on it.’ I let the smile grow.
She popped the slice of steak in her mouth and chewed. ‘I’ll feckin kill everyone yez’ve ever loved.’
Shifty flexed his hands. ‘On your feet.’
‘Feck off, fat boy.’ She hacked off another slice of bloody flesh. ‘Touch me and yer dead. Yer Ma’s dead. Yer boyfriend’s dead.’
He loomed over her. ‘Go on, resist arrest, I’m begging you.’
‘Ye think being locked up will stop me? Really?’ The fork came up, pointed right at Alice. ‘First thing I’m going to do is get someone to grab yer little psychologist friend.’
I helped myself to an asparagus spear. ‘He’s cut you loose, hasn’t he?’
Another slice of steak.
‘You’ve become a liability. You’re out of control. Abducting and torturing police officers; killing people just because they bored you at dinner?’
Her knuckles whitened around the cutlery.
‘Andy Inglis doesn’t want that kind of attention, does he? And how long do you think you’ll last inside: a day? A week? He’s not going to risk you turning Queen’s Evidence.’
Mrs Kerrigan’s one remaining eye glared up at me. ‘Think Andy Inglis is the only game in town? Lot of people owe me. I know some lovely Russian gentlemen who’ll show yer psychologist bitch a good time.’
‘It’s over.’
‘Is it fuck. They’ll pass her around between ten or twelve of them, till she’s noth
ing but screams and blood and agony.’
Alice backed away towards the door. ‘Ash?’
‘Oh, and yez’ll like this. There’s a nice man in Perth with a thing for amputation.’
Hot in here.
‘How about when the Russians have finished with yer girl, I let him cut bits off her before he screws her?’
I flipped the snib and pulled the patio doors open. Dragged in a breath of cold afternoon air. The hiss of rain slithered into the room.
‘Would yez like that? Maybe I’ll arrange for ye to be there so ye can watch him hacking away.’
The only sound was the falling rain.
‘Yez’re dead, and everyone ye’ve ever loved is—’
I grabbed her by the lapels and yanked her out of the chair. ‘Shut. Up.’
‘—feckin dead! You hear me? Dead!’
‘Ash!’
A hand on my arm. I looked down, and there was Alice, blinking up at me. Her nose was pink, eyes too. Bottom lip pinned between her teeth. She shook her head. ‘Don’t.’
I let go. Hissed out a long shuddering breath. Stepped back. ‘You’re right.’
Mrs Kerrigan straightened her dressing gown. ‘Now be a good little boy and feck off home. I’ll let yez know when I’ve got another job for ye.’ She grinned. ‘Did ye really think I was ever going to let ye go, Mr Henderson? Yer my bitch. Ye’ll jump when I say jump. Ye’ll kill who I tell ye to kill. And ye’ll fecking like it, cos if ye don’t—’
‘No!’ Alice lunged, both hands out. Took a hold of Mrs Kerrigan’s dressing gown and shoved. Hard.
Mrs Kerrigan’s eye popped wide, teeth bared, fingertips scratching at the frame as she went backwards through the open door, Alice still holding on, pushing.
‘Leave us alone!’
Out onto the narrow balcony, wet gravel crunching beneath their feet. Then thunk, the handrail caught her in the middle of the back.
‘Get off us, ye stupid little hoor!’ She wrapped her hands around Alice’s neck. ‘I’ll fecking—’
Alice slammed her little red shoe down on Mr’s Kerrigan’s bandaged right foot.
A Song for the Dying Page 45