by Tony Black
They didn’t get the joke, or didn’t find it funny.
The group had no interest in him; they were too taken with the tragic series of events being relayed by the newsreader and returned to the screen.
‘The latest victim attached to one of the country’s most high-profile murder cases is a thirty-four-year-old woman who passed away in hospital early this morning.’
McArdle rested against the counter, waiting for his breakfast to arrive. The waitress who had taken his order returned to the crowd at the other end of the room, transfixed by the television.
‘Police have not named the woman but say she was directly linked to the case of the murdered Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald.’
McArdle registered the name at once. He turned around, senses alert.
‘The schoolgirl’s mutilated body was found in an Edinburgh housing scheme earlier this week, but her baby daughter, Beth, has not been seen since. Police have now issued this picture of a man they are seeking in connection with the murders. Devlin McArdle is believed to be extremely dangerous and members of the public are advised not to approach him.’
As McArdle heard his name, saw his photograph flash on the screen, his knees went weak. His heart seemed to have stopped beating in his chest and relocated to his throat. He felt a tight band gripping him round the neck as he watched the news report continue with images of armed police officers stationed at various points around the city.
‘Police say they have definite information linking McArdle to Liverpool and have increased their presence in and around the city centre and main transport hubs.’
McArdle didn’t wait for his breakfast to arrive. He backed away from the counter, at first slowly, then, turning, he broke into a sprint. As he dashed for the car, he didn’t look back. His heart had started to beat in his chest again, much faster than he could ever remember it. When he got the door open, he was shaking so hard he could hardly get the key into the ignition. He tried but his trembling fingers wouldn’t obey him and he dropped the bunch down beside the pedals.
‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he hollered. He had to open the door again and get out to retrieve the keys. When he had them, he used both hands to locate the slot, and then got back in the car. He spun tyres as he left the parking space and raced through the intricate connecting roads back to the motorway. As he travelled, he felt himself rocking in his seat; he gripped at the lever with his left hand and tried to work his way up the gears. He knew he risked being caught for speeding, but he also knew he needed to get far away from the city of Liverpool.
‘Fuck!’ He pounded the wheel with his head.
How did they find him? Who knew? There was no one except the beasts. Had they been lifted already? He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense any more. All McArdle wanted to do was hide, to find somewhere where no one could get him.
He overtook a bread van heading out of the city and then weaved back into the left-hand lane. He sat there for only a few seconds before he was close enough to read the bumper stickers on a Nissan and then he pulled out again. He decided to stay in the middle lane for as long as he could – traffic was still quite light but it was building. He could see the commuter belt starting to feed in; but they were going into the centre and he was fleeing.
As McArdle pumped the wheel, the wound on his hand started to weep once more. He saw the blood run down his wrist and towards his shirtsleeve. The sight of the red stream made him nervous, but he didn’t know why. There was no real reason for it. Everything seemed to be conspiring against him. He felt trapped by fate.
He passed under a flyover and noticed a sign for a slip road. He eased out to the fast lane to let in any traffic that was entering; there didn’t appear to be any. He seemed to have the road to himself. For the next few minutes he pushed the needle higher and kept his eyes straight ahead, waiting, expecting to see some more traffic, but none appeared. Soon the sight of the empty road played on his mind: where was everyone?
‘Why the fuck is the road empty?’ he mouthed.
He passed another slip road, then spotted something in front of him – what was it? As he came closer he thought perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. For a moment, it seemed to McArdle that there were two cars, identical mirror images of each other, blocking the lanes in front. As he tried to focus his eyes, another one of his senses was assailed by loud sirens wailing from behind him. When he looked in the mirror McArdle saw that the flashing blue lights speeding from the slip road were police cars; turning forward again, he could see the two cars blocking the road ahead were also police cars.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
McArdle tried to think, but his mind shut down.
Chapter 48
DI ROB BRENNAN COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d been to Edinburgh Airport. If it was for a holiday, he couldn’t place it. For some reason, those moments – the ones everyone else lived for – never sat so near the repeat button on his memory. He could still channel the summer holidays he’d spent with Andy, when they were boys: the trips to Banff, the boat rides across the water to Arran. But they were remembered for an altogether different reason; Andy hadn’t been so close to his thoughts when he was alive and the guilt burned Brennan every day.
He looked at his watch – the Liverpool detectives were due in now. He’d managed to get out of the station without being tripped up by any of the press pack and he was grateful for that, but he didn’t want to be seen hanging about mob-handed in such a public place for too long. Brennan had brought three officers and four uniforms in an unmarked wagon. The windows were blacked out and he was pleased about that; there would be enough pictures of McArdle circulating soon.
The Liverpool police had said the prisoner was subdued, no bother at all, but Brennan knew they hadn’t got the tough job of prising information out of him. He was prepared for a long night of it. He was prepared to give it whatever it took to crack the bastard.
McGuire sidled up, looked about the place, spoke: ‘This is taking too long.’
‘Ease up, Stevie,’ said Brennan.
He looked at Lou and Brian; they were shuffling their feet nervously.
‘I can’t believe we picked him up,’ said the DC.
Brennan nodded. ‘It was touch and go there for a bit.’
‘Pure luck, I’d say.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘That or somebody was looking out for us.’
Brennan dismissed the suggestion, turned to face McGuire. ‘The daft bastard walked into a Little Chef and started acting the Big I Am whilst his picture was being flashed across the airwaves. Who or what do you think was looking out for us – the ghost of Tommy Cooper? It was bloody comical.’
McGuire sniggered. ‘If you put it like that.’
Brennan didn’t know who was right and who was wrong; he cared even less. He had McArdle in custody and any minute now he was going to have him in an interview room.
‘The Scousers say he isn’t talking,’ said McGuire.
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘He must know he’s going down for Melanie’s murder at least.’ McGuire scratched the back of his head, sighed. ‘We’ve a lot to thank her for.’
Brennan agreed. ‘If it wasn’t for her . . .’ He cut himself short. What was the point? Brennan wasn’t the kind of man to dabble in what-ifs. ‘Look, we’ve nailed this bastard and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll turn that child over to us quick smart.’
McGuire looked away, dropped his gaze to his shoes. ‘You think she’s still alive?’
‘Jesus Christ, Stevie . . . We’ve got to stay on top of this. There’s nothing to suggest she isn’t.’
McGuire raised his head. ‘There’s nothing to suggest she is, sir.’
Brennan didn’t have time to reply – the Scouse detectives appeared with the handcuffed McArdle. He watched the prisoner from across the airport barrier. His every step suggested to Brennan that he was scum. His appearance only confirmed it. The short sto
cky frame. The square shoulders and squat neck. The jailhouse tats on the arms. He was trash. He had killed his own wife in cold blood and then made off with an innocent child to sell into the most depraved trade on earth. Brennan clenched his jaw. He wanted to smash his fist into McArdle’s eye but he resisted. He had higher plans for him; he’d see him suffer for his actions soon enough.
The detectives brought over the prisoner, nodded to Brennan. ‘All yours, Inspector.’
Brennan reached out a hand to take the paperwork. ‘Thank you, lads.’
McGuire stepped forwards and directed Lou and Brian to take McArdle away. There was already a significant crowd gathered to look at what was going on.
Brennan turned back to the Scousers, spoke: ‘Safe journey home, lads. And thanks again.’
‘No worries, mate. Glad to see this charmer off our patch.’
Brennan and McGuire exchanged brief stares, then watched as Lou and Brian bundled the prisoner down the concourse towards the waiting wagon.
‘Now for the hard yards, Stevie.’
‘Haven’t they all been hard, sir?’
Brennan nodded; the DC had a point. It had already been the most difficult case of his career – and it wasn’t over yet. He tried not to think about how it might now play out – how hard it was going to be to get information out of McArdle and how hard it was going to be to find Beth.
When they arrived back at the station the waiting officers and uniforms cheered. Brennan raised a hand; McGuire patted him on the back. It all seemed a bit premature to Brennan – had everyone forgotten about Beth? There was certainly no cause for celebration after Carly’s murder. Then there were the others, and the missing child; at least one good family had been destroyed, whatever happened.
The interview-room door looked as it always did, but somehow as Brennan approached it he stalled before the handle. His mind whirred as he took in the prospect of what he was about to do. This was a killer; he had to put him away, but he also needed him to reveal where Beth was. There was no straightforward way to achieve this; there was no manual he could turn to. If he got McArdle on the wrong foot, he could blow it. He could cost the child her life – if she was still alive. He had played criminals like this before and found a way in, a weak spot or some common ground – he hoped he would again.
Brennan brushed his shoulders, straightened his tie. The handle of the door felt cold and firm as he turned it. McGuire was waiting with his back to him, his shoulder blocking the face of McArdle. As he closed the door, Brennan removed his coat and hung it on the back of the chair next to the DC. He poured himself a glass of water and placed a fresh packet of cigarettes, Marlboro, on the table in front of where he planned to sit. For a moment he contemplated rolling up his sleeves, but thought better of it. He pulled out the chair slowly, letting the sound of its legs dragging on the hard floor play out. When he sat, he stared for a moment into McArdle’s eyes; the prisoner looked away. Brennan raised his hands from beneath the table and opened the blue folder in front of him.
‘Speak,’ said Brennan.
‘What?’ McArdle crumpled his features, grimaced.
Brennan put his hands down on the open folder, splaying his fingers. ‘I’m giving you a chance.’ He looked over to McArdle, made sure his eyes were on him. ‘A chance to save yourself.’
McArdle sniffed. ‘That’ll be fucking right.’
Brennan tapped the pages. ‘Do you know what this is?’
A shrug, no answer.
‘This is a story, a story about a little girl from the north who came down here with her baby hoping for a new life and ended up in a communal bin at the end of a dark lane with her legs and arms cut off.’
McArdle banged a fist on the table. ‘That’s fuck all to do with me.’
Brennan continued, ‘The little girl’s baby went missing, still is missing, and along the way four other people died. Do you recognise that story?’
McArdle’s mouth widened; he showed teeth as he spoke: ‘You can’t pin that fucking lot on me . . .’ He rose up, leaned over the table and pointed. ‘I’d like to see you fucking try.’
McGuire got out of his seat, went round behind the prisoner and grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to sit down. McArdle brushed off the DC, tried to assert himself; McGuire shook his head.
Brennan looked at the pages, turned one over, then another. He let McArdle’s temper cool a little, then: ‘Tell me about Tierney and Durrant.’
‘Never heard of them.’
McGuire sniffed, looked away. Brennan read from the file. ‘Says here you’ve been dealing to them for years; even served time for it.’
‘Bullshit . . .’
‘I’ve got statements from quite a few people.’ Brennan allowed the edge of his mouth to curl into a sneer. ‘Funny – at the start of this investigation nobody wanted to speak but when you became public enemy number one we couldn’t shut them up.’
McGuire laughed out, ‘Yeah, funny that. Seems your popularity’s slipped a bit since you started hanging about with beasts.’
McArdle rose again, slapped the table. ‘Now you wait a minute—’
‘Sit down!’ roared Brennan. ‘You get out of that seat again and I will throw you to the wolves, McArdle. Are you so stupid? I’m doing you a favour here.’ Brennan stood up, went round the table to shout in McArdle’s ear. ‘You killed your own wife – you’re going down for that. Don’t you get it? There’s no door on that wall leading to a magic kingdom where you start living a fairy-tale existence. It’s over! . . . You’re going down. Whether or not you go down for the lot,’ he picked up the folder, slapped it in front of McArdle, ‘that’s what we’re debating here. Nothing else! Don’t you get that? Are you that fucking thick, man?’
McArdle brought his hands up in front of him, started to play with his fingers. His complexion smoothed; there were no grimaces as he spoke. ‘I’m not a beast.’
‘That’s for the courts to decide,’ said McGuire.
Brennan nodded, straightened his back and loosened his tie some more. ‘You run with dogs, you catch fleas. That’s what they say, isn’t it, Stevie?’
‘It is indeed.’
McArdle looked at the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of them?’
Brennan pushed over the packet, watched him light up. McArdle’s hands shook as he drew on the cigarette. The DI spoke: ‘Tell me about Tierney . . . Did he know Sproul?’
‘Who?’ McArdle took another pelt on the cigarette.
‘Peter Sproul – Paisley buddy and hardcore paedo. Did time in Peterhead . . . Place you might be paying a visit to soon if you don’t loosen up that tongue of yours.’
‘I-I’ve never heard of him, I don’t know. I only knew Tierney a-and Durrant.’
‘What’s their story? From the beginning, and don’t leave anything out because I’ll know if you have and I’m keeping count.’
McArdle tapped the cigarette on the ashtray. He moved the spilled ash with his fingertip, tipping it into the tray. His temper seemed to have subsided but the muscles in his neck had tensed. ‘Erm, what do you want to know?’
Brennan moved back round to his side of the desk. His chair was already sitting out; he pulled it in as he sat down again. ‘How did they kill Carly Donald?’
McArdle looked up. His lower lip was trembling; he sucked it into his mouth, over his teeth. As he tried to speak it was as if the words were stuck inside him. He touched the side of his head; his bandaged fingers trembled. Then he touched his mouth and began to massage the sides of his lips as though he was coaxing himself to speak. ‘It, eh, it was Vee . . . she killed her.’
‘Vee Durrant . . . How?’
McArdle’s mouth started to spasm, both lips now sucked into the hollow gape that sat beneath his nose. ‘There was some fight or other. They wanted to take the baby away – they were going to cut her in and . . .’ He looked up, seemed to register the seriousness of the situation, of his words, then continued, ‘She tried to leave, the girl, in the night when they we
re asleep but Vee woke up and there was a fight.’
‘Vee struck her? With what?’
‘An iron . . . It was a steam iron, this is all what Barry told me.’ He looked up, eyes wide, pleading. ‘I wasn’t there . . . He spilled this the night I . . .’
Brennan noticed McArdle cut himself off. He knew what he was going to say, but let it go. ‘Whose idea was it to cut her up?’
McArdle raised the cigarette again, brought it to his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Barry’s likely, I don’t know . . . It was nothing to do with me. I fucking swear if I’d known . . .’ He cut himself off again. Brennan picked him up this time.
‘If you’d known, you’d never have agreed to sell the child.’
McArdle said nothing. He seemed to be frozen before Brennan’s eyes. The Deil sat staring at the cigarette tip for some time and then he spoke: ‘I want to know that I’ll be looked after if I say any more.’
Brennan turned to McGuire; the DC nodded back. ‘We’ll make recommendations to the Fiscal . . . if you cooperate.’
McArdle dropped the cigarette; stray sparks flew up, landed on the table and went out. He put his hands over his eyes. ‘I’m not a beast. I’m not a fucking beast. I hate them. I fucking hate them.’
Brennan watched McArdle struggle. He took no enjoyment from it. His mind wasn’t focused on revenge or payback – they affected judgement. Brennan wanted justice, and Beth back; both required a level head. ‘Tell us who you gave the child to.’
McArdle removed his hands, placed them under the table momentarily, then produced them again. His jaw twitched as he spoke, face down, towards the table. ‘His name’s Günter. I don’t know his second name.’
‘German?’
A nod. ‘From Berlin.’
McGuire started to write down the details. Brennan spoke again: ‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know?’
Brennan slapped the desk. ‘Not good enough!’
‘I don’t . . . I mean, I think they’re going back.’
‘How . . . Train? Plane?’
McArdle looked away. His eyes darted left to right as if he was looking for a way out; when he found none he turned back to the officers. His words were slow, faltering: ‘Car. They’re going home through France, he said that to me.’