Mrs McNab jerked her head and pushed out with her hands, trying to get free of Billy’s grip. He responded by digging his fingers deeper into her mandible and then smacked her across the ear. He felt her jaw pop and she let out a wail as she sank to the floor. She fell away from his grasp; she had collapsed from the pain.
Rab locked onto Ross McNab’s arm and was forcing it up his back hoisting him forwards, hustling him into the lounge.
“Put him there Rab,” Billy said pointing to a mahogany oval dining table with a seating arrangement of six chairs.
Rab manhandled McNab towards the table, kicked out the nearest chair and slammed him into the seat.
Ross was fighting for breath and beads of sweat appeared on his brow.
Billy checked on Mrs McNab; she was out of it. Then in two strides he was at the side of Ross McNab pulling back his fist before delivering a vicious blow to the man’s head. He flopped sideways almost taking the chair he was seated in with him. Rab grabbed him and pulled him back upright.
“Right you fucking bastard do you remember me?” Billy hissed.
The man groaned and brought his hand up to his reddened cheek. “Course I do, how can I forget you? Billy Wallace the bastard who murdered Morag McCredie and her wee bairn,” he paused. “For nothing.”
Without any warning Billy found himself suffering another flashback. They were becoming far more frequent of late. His mind had transported him back to that night; re-living the horror when that junkie slag had ruined his looks. And as if it was happening there and then he felt a sharp sting across his nose and cheek and it caused him to reach up and stroke the outline of the ugly irregular leathery skin scar, which snaked across half of his face.
“And you’re one of the fuckers who helped put me away,” he growled.
“And you’re going away again for this you bastard. If I was ten years younger…”
Before he had time to finish the sentence Billy smashed his fist into Ross’s face instantly breaking his nose.
“Grab his hand,” ordered Billy.
Rab Geddes snatched hold of Ross McNab’s wrist and forced his hand flat, palm downwards onto the table. He tried to resist but wavered under the dizziness of pain.
Billy removed something from the inside pocket of his Crombie. “Now you bastard, me and Rab here have spent thirty six years in prison because of you and that Campbell who grassed us up. Now it’s pay-back time.” He sprang the switchback blade into action and hovered it over McNab’s hand.
Ross tried to pull away but Rab held him firm.
“I want to know where Iain Campbell is. I know you know where he is.” Billy watched Ross’s face pale and saw the stain-patch of sweat spread wider across the front of his shirt.
“I don’t know what you’re on about. Stop this now Billy. This is your final chance or you’ll be back to Barlinnie and you’ll nae see the light of day again.”
Billy started to laugh. Then a look of malevolence crept over his face “You are in no position to threaten me Mr McNab. One more chance. Where does that bastard Campbell live?”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid.”
Billy slammed down the blade directly over Ross McNab’s little finger and used his other hand on top as a lever. The knife sliced through the digit easily, cutting through into the dark wood of the table. The finger shot across the surface and a gush of blood sprayed out across the polished veneer.
A guttural scream exploded from McNab’s mouth.
Billy started jumping up and down patting his hands together child-like. “Oh, I bet that hurt,” he delivered laughingly. “Did – it - hurt?”
Billy saw that McNab was drenched in sweat. It was running in rivulets down the sides of his waxen face, and his chest was heaving, breathing as fast as if he had been jogging.
Billy became aware of loud moaning noises behind him. Mrs McNab was coming to. He slipped the knife back into his pocket, took the few steps to where she was laid out and grabbed a handful of her hair, hoisting up her head and shoulders. Her eyelids snapped open from the pain. A gurgling sound broke from her and she tried to shout, but her jaw was hanging at an awkward angle, unable to move and make coherent syllables; a clear indication it was broken.
Reaching into one large pocket of his long black coat he took out a small washing up bottle. He popped the plastic top and then squeezed the contents over her head. Then he dropped the empty bottle and let go of her hair and she dropped back onto the carpet into a crumpled heap. She forced open her eyes and blinked as the liquid trickled over her eyelids and onto her cheeks. Then her face took on a look of unimaginable horror.
From that reaction Billy realised the vapours had invaded her nasal passages.
The smell of petrol filled the room.
He took out a disposable lighter from his front trouser pocket and held it above her.
“Now this is your last chance McNab. Tell me where that bastard Iain Campbell is?”
* * * * *
They drove the car back to familiar territory on the periphery of Glasgow and left it parked on one of the labyrinth of roads around one of the notable sink estates of Easterhouse.
The pair wiped much of the interior clean with petrol soaked rags and Rab dropped the keys onto the driver’s seat before closing the door and striding away with Billy.
Billy had thought it all through. He had spent enough time in prison over the years to make his plans and consider all the eventualities. This was all going to plan and he liked the feeling of being in control. He took another look back at the silver BMW. Sooner or later he knew that one of the gangs around here would realise it wasn’t a police trap and would nick it. Hopefully the crew would get involved in a chase with the cops and get arrested.
If by chance anyone had ‘clocked’ the car near the scene back in Killin then that would throw them off his scent for quite some time: Enough time for him to do what he needed to do.
I’ve come too far now to be caught.
He checked he still had the package in his coat pocket, nudged Rab and pointed to a gap between the high-rise buildings. They increased their pace before disappearing below one of the tenement stairwells and melting into the dark.
* * * * *
Barnwell:
For a few seconds the salt in his sweat stung Jock Kerr’s eyes forcing him to blink longer than normal. He took a step back from the punch bag, squeezed his eyelids together and wiped away the perspiration from his brow. Shaking away the residue from the back of his training glove he resumed his session, bobbing and weaving around the sand-filled bag hanging from one of the gym’s arched roof beams and he dashed off a series of quick-fire blows to the weighted canvas. The bag barely moved; it was momentum he was aiming for rather than impact. Catching his reflection in one of the mirrors that ran along the length of a wall he had to smile to himself. If he had seen one of his boxing trainees performing like this he would have bawled them out.
Stop tickling it, he would have barked. Give it a good thumping.
Thankfully he was alone and wouldn’t be embarrassed by his performance. His chest still hurt, especially now that his breathing was heavy. It was his first time back in his gym since the accident and he’d decided to go in after everyone had finished - to give things a ‘try out’. The session had not gone too badly. Another week he told himself and he should be back to tip-top condition. He gave the bag a final punch, wincing as sharpness dug into his rib cage, and he clasped it firmly to stop it swinging. He caught another glimpse of his image in the mirror; he thought he still looked in pretty good shape for his fifty-six years, though his face looked tired and drawn. He put the hangdog look down to the lack of sleep over the past week, and things had been strained at home. Fiona his wife was pressing him to talk to someone and on a couple of occasions he had reacted towards her like he had done with his son. Unlike Hunter however there was a reason behind her pushing him; she knew what lay behind the attack.
Two nights ago, over a bottle of wine, they had sat down and d
iscussed it all at length; how his past had finally caught up with them, and they gone over time and time again the ‘what ifs,’ were they to tell Hunter. He had felt so guilty that Fiona had got dragged into this and had cursed himself for being so naïve in believing that he could have buried everything which had gone before. The crux of all their deliberations was not if, but when, they should tell Hunter. Fiona felt it was now time, whereas he wasn’t so sure. Having made his decision an hour ago he had pulled on his training top and jogged down to his gym.
The last half hour on the bag had reinforced his thinking. It was time to make that call.
He pulled off his training gloves, slung a towel around his neck, and began to steady his breathing, scoping his eyes around his gym. For a split second a wave of satisfaction washed over him. He could still remember the sight which had greeted him the first time he had walked into this place thirty five years ago. Then it had been a derelict drill hall once used by army cadets. At the time it had swallowed up all of their savings and had required lots of physical work to lick it into shape to enable him to open it up as a gym. But it had been worth it. Now it was one of the best boxing academies in the Yorkshire region. He had gained a reputation as a boxing coach; he had a good stable of future young champions in-the-making, and as an added bonus it was a profitable business. As he dabbed at the last remnants of sweat from his face he hoped-against-hope that what he had achieved over the years wasn’t going to come crashing down around him because of one night from his past.
He wandered into his office and dropped into the swivel captain’s chair behind his old desk, leaned back on its springs and looked around his cluttered room. For a few seconds as he pondered putting off the inevitable his gaze leapt around the walls, checking out the yellowing boxing promotion posters hung all around; every one of his achievements were recorded on those; all the fights he had won back in his heydays as a professional.
He pulled back his gaze and shivered. He mulled over in his head what he needed to say and then yanked open the desk’s top drawer. He ferreted around amongst the loose paperwork until he found the card that had been buried at the back all these years. He scanned the number and guessed he would have to add a nought to the beginning of the dialling code after all this time. He took up the handset and punched in the number and listened to the ringing tone repeat itself at the other end. It took what seemed an eternity before anyone answered; he had almost given up hope and was ready for hanging up. Then a voice came on he didn’t recognise; a woman’s voice. It sounded younger than it should have. The voice just said a simple “Hello,” to which Jock repeated the same greeting.
“Who is this?” said the woman.
“Jock - Jock Kerr, who is this?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate,” she answered. The voice was slow and distinctive with an air of confidence. “Who is it you are after?”
“Sorry I must have the wrong number. It was Ross McNab I was after.”
“Oh you have the right number all right.” What the female detective said next took him completely by surprise.
He stopped the call in a daze; trying to grasp what she had just said. He felt as though he was in a very dark place.
* * * * *
Stirlingshire, Scotland:
DCI Dawn Leggate pushed her driver’s door to and pulled on her windbreaker. Zipping it up she stood motionless for a few seconds taking in the surroundings and preparing herself for what she knew lay ahead. She’d deliberately parked twenty yards away from the scene where the lane opened up to the driveway and where it gave her a clear view of the setting. Ahead, facing her, parked on the gravel hard standing were two marked police vehicles, a fire engine and an ambulance, crowded together blocking the entrance to the McNab’s bungalow. Blue strobing lights picked out the shapes of the surrounding trees and hedges, skirted across the fields, momentarily lighting up the waving fronds of wild grasses before finally washing over the white walls of the secluded dwelling. For a split-second there was darkness as the blue lights spun away and then everything lit up again as they continued their sweeping sequence.
She couldn’t help think that the image panning out before her somehow felt staged, almost as if it was an opening sequence to a TV drama: Yet she knew this was for real. Thirty five minutes beforehand the police communications room had rung her mobile as she was about to fork a mouthful of her microwave lasagne meal-for-one. She had sped up the A84 to make it here in record time. Thank goodness the roads had been relatively clear; she knew she’d driven like a mad women, a mixture of frustration and resolve; but it was her turn as ‘on-call’ she tried to tell herself. But after another long day at the office, and with her life currently as it was, she just didn’t need this pressure right now.
Another gust of wind rose over the hedges and whipped her ginger red hair across her face. Coaxing the shoulder length strands into a loose pony-tail she bunched it into her jacket’s high collar and continued on towards the McNab’s home, slipping on a pair of latex gloves whilst desperately trying to avoid the silvery puddles which had collected in the divots along the track.
Squeezing between the emergency vehicles the only light she could pick out inside the smoke-ridden place appeared to be coming from torches, dancing backwards and forwards, fleetingly appearing through the soot-stained glass windows for a split-second before disappearing again - almost a lighthouse effect. She guessed the fire had taken out the electrics. A couple of the window openings were ajar and wisps of white smoke drifted through the gaps before being caught up and whisked away by the north easterly up into the leaden night sky.
She let herself into the darkened hallway. No one was on the door; the crime scene had not been sealed off yet. She mentally ticked it off as one of her priorities.
She found that the air was heavy with soot and smoke and it immediately clogged the back of her throat making her gag. She clasped a hand over her mouth and loosely pinched her nose.
“Hello – anyone there?” she called out even though she knew there was activity somewhere in the bungalow.
Without warning a bright beam appeared from the doorway to her right. It flashed across her eyes temporarily blinding her.
“Sorry ma’am, didn’t hear you arrive,” she heard a man’s voice say. The light had blanked her vision for a few seconds; she couldn’t see a thing.
“The bodies are this way.”
She blinked frantically, desperate to see. Gradually through a haze of orange flashes a silhouette appeared before her. She picked out the shape; a uniform cop barred the door. She recognised his face from back at the station but couldn’t remember his name.
“They’re in a bit of a mess,” he said stepping back.
She took out her own 1,000 candle powered Maglite and switched it on. A powerful ray of light leapt from her torch, piercing the drifting fire smoke, and focussed in a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor. She swept it through the open doorway into the room, along the floor, up onto the walls, picking out bits of furniture. From its contents she deduced this was the lounge area of the bungalow. The smell in here was different; soot and smoke the same but in a pungent mix which was somewhat sweeter. It reminded her of a barbeque. Then her beam fell onto the chaos and she immediately realised why. Mrs McNab; she gathered it was her from the remnants of a charred dress which was still smouldering. Most of her upper body was char-grilled black except where the skin had split and cracked from the intense heat and here gashes of raw pink flesh gaped through. Eyes stared back at her and white teeth glistened because the soft tissue of the eyelids and lips had shrivelled away. It was a surreal sight.
“The fire officer says she’s been set alight with an ignitable solvent of some type – probably petrol,” announced the uniform cop who had followed her into the room. “When I got here they were just dousing her out. He said she had been the seat of the main fire.”
Dawn shuddered. She felt her skin prickle.
“It’s even worse back her
e ma’am.”
She followed the light from the officer’s torch as it settled on a human form seated at one end of, and hunched across, a large oval table.
Striding over the charred remains of Mrs McNab she stepped warily towards the table arrangement. Moving to the left and right of the humped figure she scrutinised. “And this must be Mr McNab?” she asked rhetorically. He was face-pressed against the table surface, a halo of thick cloying blood surrounding his head. A chunk of flesh was missing from his frontal lobe; it looked as though attempts had been made to scalp him. His skin and clothing were in the main charred and blackened though parts of his bare forearms displayed heat blisters.
“It looks as though he’s been tortured,” interjected the cop again. The beam from his torch flooded across the grimy mahogany veneer surface and settled on an outstretched hand. “Three of his fingers have been chopped off,” the officer continued, “and look at this here.” He flicked the torch light over to a package of shop bought fish fingers resting in the centre of the table. “There’s a note underneath them. I’ve already read it but not touched it.”
Dawn crossed the officer’s ray with her own Maglite beam fixing onto an A4 size silted note. Despite the film of soot she could still make out the black capital letters scrawled across the paper. It read - THESE ARE TO REPLACE THE MISSING ONES.
She tried to catch the gaze of the uniform cop but he was in semi-darkness. Her eyes danced between the disfigured hand of Mr McNab and the fish finger box.
“What sick bastard would do this?” she said out loud. She shook herself back from her thoughts and was quickly turning them into crime scene investigation mode. She went through a check-list in her head; earlier whilst speeding towards the scene she had been told over the radio that SPSA were on their way; getting the Scottish Police Services Authority forensics team here was one job she could tick off. “And I want you to start the visitor log please.” She threw the cop her car keys. “There’s a clipboard and paperwork in the boot. And seal the area off with tape before you come back to the house. Oh and before you go - point me in the direction of the senior fire officer.” Her instructions were interrupted by the ringing tone of a telephone. It was coming from somewhere back in the entrance hall. She paused in mid-flow waiting for voice-mail or an answer machine to kick-in but that didn’t happen. The phone continued to ring unabated. She strode over Mrs McNab’s body and tramped into the hallway. She found the buzzing phone on a stand close to the front door. Lifting the handset from its cradle, through the thin layer of latex of her forensics glove she could feel a slimy, greasy film covering it as a result of the fire and she raised it towards her ear; close enough to hear, yet not mark her face.
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 9