by Tony Black
‘Did she have the baby?’
McGuire grabbed his earlobe. ‘Ah, I, er, didn’t ask.’
‘Fucking hell. Get on the phone to Brian again and get the details.’ Brennan’s voice was forceful. ‘I want the media kept in the loop and I want you to tell them we need this footage aired on all the news channels tonight.’
McGuire leaned back, scratched his jawline. ‘Big ask, sir.’
‘I’m all about the big fucking ask, lad. Do it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McGuire spun, halted as Brennan began to speak again.
‘Might just piss off those wankers at the paper – put them off our mole.’
McGuire looked ahead, spoke: ‘Sir, you never told me what your theory was.’
Brennan stared at him, full on. ‘Who said I had one?’
‘But you think Sproul might have known about the baby?’
‘I’d say he knew very well about the baby. If he was the father I’d say Donald would feel compelled to let him know . . . Be the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t you say?’
McGuire followed his boss as he took long strides towards the stairs. ‘This is wrecking my head, sir.’
Brennan stalled halfway down the first step, turned. ‘Expect it to get a lot worse when we get back to Edinburgh. I can’t see Galloway being overly pleased that we let a possible suspect slip through our fingers, even with the footage card to play.’
McGuire bit his lip. ‘But he killed himself, sir.’
The DC was running ahead of the facts; Brennan reined him in. ‘Did you see a note, Stevie?’
‘Well, it looks that way . . .’
‘It does indeed, Stevie, but let’s not jump to conclusions.’
Chapter 34
DEVLIN McARDLE GLANCED AT THE clock. It was approaching six. He’d spent the day waiting for a call from his German contact, but it never came. He knew these people were secretive, had to be because the filth were all over their activities, but he didn’t like waiting for the rest of his money, or the child to be collected.
Melanie walked through from the kitchen. She was carrying a baby’s bottle, smiling as she said, ‘Why the long face?’
McArdle pressed his back hard to the sofa. He had his leg over the arm of the chair and he lowered it when his wife spoke. ‘What you on about?’
Melanie tipped her head, jauntily. ‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found a penny.’
It was a stupid phrase, the kind of thing Melanie always came out with when she wasn’t drinking. When she was drinking it was bearable – she was bitter and ranting. He knew where he was with her; she could be manipulated, controlled. This new state of mind unsettled him. ‘Away and see to that kid,’ said McArdle. ‘I want to watch the news.’
As Melanie sauntered off McArdle picked up the television remote control and directed it at the screen. Anne Robinson was hectoring the contestants on The Weakest Link. Just the sight of her was enough to make McArdle curse. He flicked the television to off.
In the silence of the room he felt grateful the baby he’d taken from Tierney and Vee wasn’t making its usual racket, but he was far from happy. McArdle wasn’t going to be settled until the Germans took the child and did whatever it was they wanted to do. McArdle knew what they were, what they were capable of. He wasn’t a fool. He’d met their type in prison; the others called them beasts. No one on the inside would dare to associate with a beast – they were beneath contempt, not real people. There was a hardcore of cons who made it their business to wipe out beasts. Shanks, sharpened spoons, anything that could be used as a weapon was useful currency among those who wanted to wound, or worse. McArdle had read stories in the papers about the beasts; he knew how they operated and what they were after. Snatching children off the street and subjecting them to all kinds of torment and indignity before suffocating them, if they were lucky, beating them to death if they weren’t.
He started to fidget on the sofa as he thought of the things he had heard and read about beasts. They were called beasts because they were just that – animals. Fucking beasts. McArdle pressed his lip against his bottom teeth and paced the living room. When he reached the far wall he let out a blow with his fist. The action set a standing lamp quivering and when he withdrew his knuckles he saw there were three little declivities in the plaster.
‘Fuck it!’ he roared.
He heard Melanie stir upstairs. She moved to the landing and hung her head over the banister. ‘Dev, what’s going on?’
He looked up, shouted, ‘Nothing. Nothing. Get back to that kid . . . Get saying your goodbyes – it’ll not be here much longer.’
Melanie seemed to stall for a moment or two before moving off. She made no reply.
McArdle moved back to the sofa and threw himself down. He had a pack of Carlsberg sitting on the seat beside him and pulled a tin towards himself, cracked the seal. ‘Fucking German beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Get me my money and get the fuck out my face.’
They could do what they wanted with the child; that wasn’t his concern, he thought. No one had ever looked out for him. Why should he care if no one was looking out for that kid? They could have their fun with it and drop it in a pit; he didn’t care. It’s not my lookout, he thought. The kid’s nothing to me. He knew he had watched his wife bond with the baby over the last few days and he didn’t like that. He never let his emotions get in the way of business, and that’s all this was, business. He’d sold a child to the Germans before and they had paid promptly. They had collected promptly too, however, and he wondered why they were taking so long this time. Was it the price? He’d increased the price, of course he had, but not by that much. It made him nervous.
McArdle knew how they treated beasts inside, had seen it first hand. He didn’t want to be associated with them. Even though he was certain in his mind he was nothing to do with them – it was business, that’s all – there would be people who would see it differently. The police, for sure.
He didn’t like the waiting. It unsettled him, made his mind seek out possible reasons for the delay. Every minute of the day that the child stayed in his keep was a minute too long. He needed to get rid of it, fast.
McArdle supped on his tin of Carlsberg, put it back on the arm of the sofa and removed his mobile phone. He checked his calls to see if he had missed one from Günter, but there were no messages at all. He went into his contacts, looked out Günter’s number and contemplated ringing him again, and then his mind froze. If the filth were watching him, they could be tracing his calls. He knew he couldn’t take the risk. The thought lit a taper in him; his anger erupted again and he rose, kicked out at the sofa. The tin of Carlsberg went over and poured onto the cover.
‘Fuck it! Fuck it!’
He wiped at the lager with the back of his hand, sprayed the majority of it onto the carpet and worked it in with his foot. He didn’t care about the mess. Melanie could clean it up later . . . if she was ever finished with that fucking baby.
He touched his brow, wiping away the line of sweat that had formed below his close-cropped hairline. He ran his lower lip over the tops of his teeth and tried to think but there was nothing close to a solution in his mind. The frustration started to create a burning feeling in his chest; the beat of his pulse increased its rate. He was getting worried, irrational now – he knew the signs. He needed to calm himself, keep a level head, that’s what he’d always been told. It was the ones who lost it that got locked up.
McArdle lowered himself back on the sofa and picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television screen. The Weakest Link had finished and the news was on now. He watched the day’s headlines and the endless jousting of political rivals that went on every night of the week, and felt somehow secure enough in his own home once more to let his mind settle. The world was a mad place, he thought; you did what you had to do to get by, find a way through the madness.
By the time the Scottish news headlines came on McArdle had relaxed enough to open another tin of Carlsberg. The pou
nding in his chest had subsided and his thoughts seemed to have settled into a more peaceful commentary on the day’s affairs. Everything changed when the newsreader shifted to the next item. It was as if her voice had been altered to impart the seriousness of the story she was relaying. As she spoke a picture appeared behind her head. Whatever it was she was saying seemed to be cancelled out by the image for McArdle. As he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees he couldn’t quite take in what he was seeing. The photograph, obviously blown up from a CCTV image, was of a face he clearly knew.
McArdle felt his breathing alter right away. He leaned back and tried to compose himself but his surging blood wouldn’t let him. He felt as though he was drowning, like his head had been shoved under water and his mind was being flooded with strange memories, sensations, premonitions. He knew the sight of Barry Tierney’s image on the television was the beginning of a nightmare.
McArdle grabbed up the remote control, pumped the volume as he dropped to his knees in front of the television screen.
The newsreader’s words came like arrows: ‘Police investigating the murder of Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald have today released images of a man they would like to identify. The footage, taken from inside Edinburgh Bus Station, shows Carly, who was sixteen at the time of her death, and her baby daughter, Beth, who has been missing since her mother’s murder, and an unknown man.’
McArdle put his hands to his mouth. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was Tierney. The bastard. ‘What the fucking hell has he done?’ he blasted. McArdle sensed the seriousness of the situation at once. It was on the evening news, for Christ’s sake.
The woman on the screen introduced another man, a police officer. His name was printed along the bottom of the picture: DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ROBERT BRENNAN.
The officer spoke: ‘Lothian and Borders Police are very keen to trace the man in the picture. These images were taken only the day before Carly Donald’s remains were found in the city’s Muirhouse housing scheme, and we believe he may be able to help us with our inquiries.’
The reporter spoke: ‘What should people do if they recognise this man?’
‘They should get in touch with police, or Crimestoppers, in complete confidence . . . I should state again, there is a very young baby missing and we need to locate the whereabouts of young Beth as soon as possible, so any information, however small, will be of use to us.’
McArdle felt himself grimacing before the screen. He could feel the heat pulsing in his neck as his veins bulged. His eyes were wide in disbelief. He knew exactly what ‘help police with their inquiries’ meant – Tierney was dead meat. The filth were probably tearing the city down looking for him already. If they got to him, McArdle knew he was finished. Tierney would do anything to try and save his scrawny neck.
McArdle looked at the cop speaking on the screen. He could see the determination in his eyes. He knew this was a man he couldn’t cross; he’d met his sort before. He was old school, not like the by-the-book mob who ran shitless from a fancy brief. McArdle was scared; he rocked to and fro on his knees. ‘Fucking hell! Fucking hell!’ he roared. ‘Tierney, you bastard, I’ll fucking kill you. I will fucking put a bullet in you.’
McArdle knew his only chance was to get to Tierney before the police. If he didn’t, he was looking at a jail cell in Peterhead, where they put all the beasts.
He rose, turned to collect his phone. As he did so, he noticed Melanie standing behind the sofa.
‘How long have you been there?’ he said.
She didn’t answer.
Chapter 35
DECLAN KILLEAN DIDN’T TRAVEL ACROSS the water without good reason. He’d flown on the first available flight, after a call from Devlin McArdle. He hadn’t known the Scotsman, but McArdle had supplied a list of names he could check him out with. They all confirmed he was, if not trustworthy, careful, and, more importantly for Killean, a payer.
The stewardess smiled as he left the plane. They weren’t as good-looking as they once were, he thought. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. Manners were important – it was the ones without manners that stood out, got remembered. He didn’t want that.
Killean carried no luggage in the hold, so made his way out as everyone else stood at the carousel. He passed through customs in the green channel and found himself in the main concourse of Edinburgh Airport; the place had changed, he thought. Was it progress? Possibly, though if he was back in this country, there couldn’t have been that much progress.
He eschewed the Avis and Hertz car rental desks and made for the bus stop that took tourists to the city centre. It was a short ride, twenty minutes. There was still daylight when he got on the vehicle, but by the time he alighted at St Andrew Square the sky had darkened and a gaudy, bright moon was up. He followed the late-evening crowds onto York Place and made for the pub McArdle had mentioned on Broughton Street. As he walked, Killean remembered why it had been so long since he’d been in Scotland. He didn’t like the place. Edinburgh especially was a strange city – too English; he didn’t trust a Celtic town that had given away so much of its identity. Then there was the smell. Dublin could blame the Liffey, but what was Edinburgh’s excuse? He wanted to get his visit over with quickly, and get out.
In the bar, Killean ordered an orange juice and stood with his bad leg resting on the foot rail. A squat man with a shaved head and a nervy manner approached, spoke: ‘You must be my visitor.’
Killean collected his change from the barman, nodded. ‘Let’s take a seat in the corner.’
As they walked Killean tried to get the measure of the Scotsman. He was hard, but what did he have to back it up with? And what was with the swagger? Those bloody Scots always had to wear their status on their sleeve, he thought. In Ireland, people knew you were hard by reputation. You never needed to advertise; if you did, you weren’t that hard. Killean had earned his status in the Cause and had no call to parade himself. If anyone doubted it, it would be easy enough to prove them wrong.
McArdle took a seat. He was drinking lager – some spilled over the brim as he placed the pint on a beer mat. ‘You come highly, eh, recommended.’
Killean wasn’t there to talk about himself. ‘You have something for me.’
McArdle nodded; a roll of flesh quivered beneath his neck as he reached into his back pocket and removed a copy of the Racing Post. He placed it on the table. Killean raised his glass to his lips, quaffed a large draught of orange juice then returned the drink to the table.
McArdle opened the cover of the Racing Post – inside was a padded envelope. ‘Don’t you want to count it?’
Killean shook his head. ‘Why would I need to do that?’
‘You wouldn’t.’
There was a gust of wind as the door to the pub was opened and jammed on its hinges; a middle-aged woman with overdyed blonde hair rose and wrestled the door shut. Killean watched her as she moved – her arse must have been a yard across.
‘Have you put the details I need in there like I said?’
McArdle nodded. His hands seemed to be jittering as he spoke: ‘They’re in a flat I’ve got down in Dean . . . Told them to wait until dark, then make their way along the water to Canonmills for the car.’
A nod, confirmation. Killean picked up the Post and put it under his arm as he finished his drink.
McArdle started to rub his fingers on the table. ‘The cunts have got it coming,’ he said.
Killean put down his glass, pointed to McArdle’s mouth. ‘Keep that fucking shut. I don’t want to hear.’
McArdle settled further back into his seat, shook his head. Killean rose from his chair and walked for the door. As he left the pub he didn’t look round to farewell McArdle.
In the street he transferred the Racing Post to his bag. He walked a few more steps and hailed a taxi – he had another appointment on the other side of town. As the driver turned into Leith Walk Killean transferred money from the padded envelope into another smaller envelope. He made sure
to do this within the confines of the bag resting on his lap, out of sight of the taxi driver. When the cab reached the Shore, Killean passed the driver the fare and left a tip of one pound; he always left a tip of one pound. Any more was ostentation; any less could be deemed parsimonious.
Killean swung his good leg from the black cab’s bay and followed with his other, allowing the first to take the weight of his frame. He crossed to the other side of the road and made his way to the edge of the car park where a silver Toyota was waiting. As he closed in on the car he saw a man with a beard in the driver’s seat. He avoided eye contact and made his way to the passenger door; as he turned the handle the bearded man started the engine. The car pulled out.
There was no talk between the pair until they reached the first set of traffic lights on Commercial Street. ‘Your bag’s in the boot.’
Killean nodded.
‘It’s all there, like you asked for.’
Killean kept his eyes front as the driver engaged the clutch, proceeded to first gear. He didn’t want to engage in conversation, that had been one of his requests, but the driver seemed to be relaxing now, getting curious.
‘That ammo took some getting hold of. Make much of a difference, does it?’
Killean felt a nerve twitch in his temple. ‘Can you please keep your ignorant fucking mouth shut.’
The bearded man turned towards him. His lips were parted, on the verge of words, but he held them in. Killean sensed the man’s fear – there was no mistaking the emotion.
On Ferry Road the car stopped at more traffic lights but the driver kept his head facing forward and jerked quickly through the gears as the lights changed. By the time they reached Dean Village a full ten minutes of silence had passed. When the car came to rest, Killean opened his door and made for the boot. He removed an oversized black bag and closed the boot up, walked away. He did not speak again to the driver as he headed for the Water of Leith.