“We’ll see.”
Paul watched the determined set of her jaw, the way her small hand crept up her neck. He pictured his fingers around it. Squeezing.
“Do you though?” He imagined his thumb on her jugular. “Do you see how this is going to end? Because I do. If you don’t untie me now, only one of us is leaving here alive.”
“Is killing so easy for you?”
“I know how far I’m willing to go. Even if I don’t want to, I’ll maul you, I’ll tear you to shreds, because you’re right, I am an animal. Go head to head with me only if you’re willing to kill me.”
Suddenly Annie walked out of the room. With long, purposeful strides she whisked past him. Paul tore his wrists against the ropes, fighting to break free. A second later the door banged against the wall as it flew open. She came back in and stood in front of him, a knife in her hand.
“If you don’t tell me what you did to her, I swear to God I’ll chop you up a piece at a time.”
“Go on then. Cut me.”
The knife shook in her hand, inching closer.
“Go on, slice my arm. Even up the odds a little. Show me you mean it. GO ON!” he taunted. “If you cut me, I’ll tell you about Lena.”
With a thrusting movement too fast to register, she slashed his lower left arm. Only when the knife fell from her hands and clinked onto the floor did he realise what she’d done. He knew it was shock that stopped him feeling it, but the pain would arrive soon. He watched his blood drip from the wound, saw the rusty droplets smeared on the blade at his feet.
Annie had collapsed onto all fours beside him, her chest rasping in breathless heaves.
Paul gripped his hands closed, turning his knuckles white. He was energised by the sight of his own blood; his chest swelled, every inch of him tingled.
Annie rolled into a crouch, her chin resting in her hand, her nostrils flaring.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he panted. “The hardest part of killing someone is having to live with it afterwards.”
She flashed a look of hatred up at him. With the aid of the couch arm, she shakily got to her feet. Reaching for a cloth off the radiator, she came towards him and dried off the blood on his lower arm. “I think I’ll manage.”
She inspected the open wound for a while, then, when she was done, she walked back to her seat in the armchair and crossed her legs. For the first time since she’d taken him hostage, Paul had to admit that the little girl was serious.
Chapter Thirteen
Ten years ago
It was a busy Thursday night at The Low Road and the bar was crowded, but he still spotted Lena the moment she walked through the heavy wooden door. He watched from behind the bar as she mingled with a crowd he’d seen in there before. They worked at an alternative clothing shop across the road, where he’d been promised a discount if he ever went in. But he’d never seen her with them. He hadn’t seen her since that day in the park two years before, the day she’d had her picture taken and had been all set to move in with the dental student.
Lena fitted right in to the picture-perfect clique of urban chic. Her clothes had an effortless appearance that must have taken hours of planning: an artistically faded top, with strategically placed holes, layered over another carefully chosen patterned number. Her straight hair and blunt fringe had been meticulously set, the thick black eyeliner above her lashes drawn on with the steadiest of hands.
Paul waited until she broke away from the group before coming out from behind the bar. He cut her off before she made it to the counter.
“Excuse me, miss, management requires identification.”
She prepared to look affronted. Then she looked more closely, realised it was him and tutted in mock annoyance.
He took the provisional driving licence she produced from her bag and laughed. “Little Lena’s finally turned eighteen!”
“Six months ago.” She pointed triumphantly to the date of birth, as Paul pretended to search the card for flaws.
“Happy belated birthday,” he said and pulled her in for a giant hug. He could feel her arms squeezing tightly around his waist. “This calls for a celebration. I’d like to buy you and your friends a drink.”
He reached into the fridge with an air of authority and took out a bottle of champagne. He made sure Lena noticed how the other staff danced around him and hoped she would quickly realise how far he’d come since they’d last met. How his clothes set him apart from everyone else in the bar – incongruously clean-cut in his fitted trousers and polished brogues. His voice was different too, more appropriate to the new circles he moved in, his distinctive nasal twang now lost beneath a smooth, assured articulation.
He presented the bottle to her in a bucket of ice and she accepted it graciously.
“How many glasses?”
Lena glanced back at the group she had come in with, some of whom were looking around for her impatiently. “There’s five of us, but six if you have time to join us?”
“Course I have.” He casually reached down and with one hand picked up some flutes. “I’m the boss.”
“Hi everyone, this is Paul, an old friend. He owns this place,” Lena announced as they reached the couches in the corner where her group were sitting.
“Actually, I run it for a friend.” Paul laughed and placed the flutes on their table.
“Vampires – sucking on the fruits of living labour,” a tall, mannish girl with cropped brown hair said. There was a ripple of laughter around the group. “You joined the conversation at an interesting point.”
Paul felt his balls shrivel and forced a smile.
Lena found a seat between the two men of the group and Paul tried to figure out which one she was with as he poured the champagne.
“Moët et Chandon, extra brut. Very nice,” the handsome lantern-jawed male said as his glass fizzed. “It means extra dry.”
“Yes, I know.” Paul smiled again as he found a perch on the arm of one of the girls’ chairs. The other guy was an older skinhead with leather motorcycle trousers and tribal tattoos. Definitely him, Paul decided.
Lena began introducing each of them with a catalogue of interesting facts. “This is Ali.” She gestured to the skinhead. “He used to live on the streets in Paris. Made his living as a graffiti artist. You can still see his tag in some of the tunnels on the Metro. Gabrielle…” The mannish one waved. “She travelled round Patagonia last year photographing volcanoes and some of the indigenous tribes. She won awards. Claudia…” The girl in the chair he was perched on looked round and smiled. “… is from Germany. She’s over to improve her English for her PhD studies. And Jared is a model. He’s worked for H&M.”
They exchanged some nice-to-meet-yous.
“It’s really made me think there’s a whole big world out there.” Lena continued talking rapidly while the others assumed expressions of magnanimous indulgence. “And I’m missing it hanging around in this dump. I’m going to work in the shop until I have enough money to just go. Travel the world. London first, maybe Rome next.”
“You should!” the rest chimed in, and then came a long list of recommendations that covered most of the globe.
“And what about you, Paul?” Ali interjected over them.
“Yeah!” Lena was brimming with enthusiasm. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”
“Scotland. I like Scotland.”
“Where in Scotland? It’s a big country,” Gabrielle huffed haughtily.
“Glasgow’s pretty alright.”
Lena laughed uncertainly, not sure if he was joking, a little deflated. The group threw a few more questions at him, trying to engage him on politics, quoting the names of writers and philosophers and making obscure musical references. He knew nothing about art and cared even less about politics. He knew about making money, but that seemed to be the biggest deal-breaker
of all with the group; enigma solved, they moved their attention to something else. When they started discussing female genital mutilation versus the right to religious freedom, he knew it was time to go.
Before he did, he stood up and proposed a toast. “To Lena. All grown up.” He hoped he would get the chance to speak to her on her own later. “To your success!” Their eyes locked and she smiled; for a split second they shared a small moment, unnoticed by anyone else.
Until that night, he’d measured the bar’s success in the monthly reports, in the figures in the ledger, the bare fact of numbers. Now he only cared how it measured up in her eyes. From his vantage point in the centre of the room he was able to take in just how many customers were crammed onto the bar’s fashionably battered sofas, just how perfect the original artwork was for the walls. He drank it in with a strange mix of guilt and pride. Guilt for those nights when he’d been with Stacy but was thinking about Lena. Pride for how good it had felt to tell Lena he was the boss. Guilt because it was no longer possible to imagine the threadbare old regulars who had once perched there on church-hall chairs, or to pretend that he might turn around and find John or Sheila walking through the door. And pride because for the first time that fact pleased him.
For a week after John’s death, Paul didn’t leave his bedroom. He had lain there in a fevered state, trying to forget the image of John’s broken skull, the bat matted with hair and bone, unable to rid his head of the crunching sound.
The first day, Stacy called in sick for him. She came back into the bedroom and passed on Sheila’s annoyance that John hadn’t shown up for his shift either. Must have been a late one last night, she’d grumbled. No doubt he’d roll in around noon, eyes bloodshot. Paul pulled the covers over his face. The next day when Stacy phoned in sick for him again she reported that John still hadn’t shown up. Sheila was worried he might have fallen down when drunk, banged his head; she was calling round the hospitals. Had Paul spoken to him?
Paul didn’t bother to answer. The next day, same thing – did John have a girlfriend? Was he on a bender? Paul fixed his eyes on a spot outside the window, trying not to think about the fact that John wouldn’t show up the following day either, or the one after that. Or ever again.
On the sixth day, Manny called. Paul took the phone, anticipating the worst.
“Go back to work,” he was told, and that was the end of that.
The next day, when he crossed the road, the familiar doors of the pub in sight, he saw the body of a dead bird lying mangled on the tarmac. His stomach lurched as vomit rose in his throat. Choking it back, he hurried to the pub, pushing his way through the door. He could sense the few morning customers watching him as he walked the endless distance to the bar, his legs weak and heavy. Behind the bar, a red-eyed Sheila offered a brisk hello then busied herself cleaning. He nodded at the customer peering at him over his newspaper and received an angry glare in return; then the man moved to a seat in the corner.
“Any word?” he asked Sheila.
Sheila continued cleaning. “Nothing,” she said, without turning to look at him. She didn’t ask Paul where he’d been.
He read more than worry for John’s wellbeing in the hostility of people around him. He could feel himself coming apart. By lunch the tension was too much to bear; he grabbed his coat and left. His mind swirling, he wandered aimlessly through the streets, bumping into shoppers, parked cars, searching for the nearest route out of the city centre. He found himself crossing down to the banks of the Clyde.
The air was colder near the river. There were fewer people. Resting his arms on the railings, he stared into the water and felt completely hollow. It ran like brown treacle, creasing and dimpling, lapping lazily off the side. He stayed there for an hour, watching the steady stream. The consistency of the rippling bubbles soothed his burning temples until eventually he was able to drag himself back.
When he re-entered The Low Road, Paul was met with a scene that nearly set him running for the door. It took all his discipline to walk towards it, like a boxer turning into a punch.
Sheila was sitting on a chair in the snug, at the front corner of the bar. Her face was crumpled; her hand clasped her mouth, stifling her crying. The bar was unmanned. Standing over her was a figure familiar to Paul because he’d met him once before; except this time he was dressed in a suit, clean-shaven, his grey hair clipped. Paul looked at him wide-eyed, trying not to panic. His heart was beating so fast he felt like he would pass out.
Carmichael’s eyes were boring into him. Paul glanced around the bar. There were only four or five customers spread out in booths, but they were all looking over.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some news about… John.”
Hearing the name knocked the wind out of him. Sheila looked up and cried out, saving him from Carmichael’s glare. “They found his car parked up near the Erskine Bridge,” she yelped. “They think he’s jumped, Paul!”
Paul placed a consoling hand on Sheila’s back. It felt natural to be comforting his colleague, and it helped him control his anxiety. A whisper of suicide rushed through the bar, rippling the back of his neck like a cold wind of relief. Paul closed his eyes.
“Sheila, it’s OK. It’s OK.” He rubbed her back as she trembled like a tiny sparrow.
She held up her hands, trying to grasp some sense from the air around her. “Why?” she whispered.
Paul couldn’t stand to look at her. Needing space, he started to walk to the bar to get himself and Sheila a drink, but Carmichael stepped into his path.
“We’re looking into the possibility of suicide.” Carmichael placed a detaining hand on Paul’s chest then pushed him forcefully back. “Let me,” he said.
Paul stood still, watching as Carmichael went behind the bar, picked up a glass and filled it with water from the tap. He sensed that a gauntlet had been thrown down and he suddenly wanted Carmichael gone.
He watched as Carmichael brought the glass round and handed it to Sheila. “There you go, dear.” She took it weakly.
“Sheila was telling me you’ve been sick. Anything serious?”
Paul could feel his anger rising. “Food poisoning,” he answered sharply. Carmichael’s visit wasn’t just to bring them the bad news. It was for an interrogation.
Sheila looked up at him.
“When was it you came down with that? Monday, was it?” Carmichael said. “I suppose, now I think of it, that was the day John went missing – the same day? Actually, I was in here that day. Do you remember me?”
“Your face seems familiar.” The colour drained from Paul’s cheeks. His tongue stumbled over the words. Carmichael was the one in charge of this situation.
“I asked to see John.”
“Yeah, I think so. It’s a bar. A lot of people come in.”
Carmichael flashed his warrant card, his face grim. “Cut the bullshit.”
Paul stopped dead.
“Why don’t we talk?” Carmichael motioned to the front door.
“What about?”
“In private.”
Paul scratched his neck uncomfortably. Sheila was looking back and forth between them in confusion. Carmichael began to walk and Paul saw no other choice but to follow him out onto the street. He knew Sheila was watching them through the window.
Carmichael lit a cigarette and offered one to Paul, who waved it away.
“What do you want, Inspector?”
Carmichael moved his face close to Paul’s. “I want to know what happened to John.”
Paul clenched his facial muscles, angered now by the filth before him. The familiar pangs helped him regain his composure. “I thought you just told us.”
“Drove his car up to the Erskine Bridge? Most likely threw himself into the river?”
Paul shrugged.
“Do you believe that… what’s your name again? Paul… Dalziel?”
“That’s what it sounds like… Inspector… Carmichael?”
Paul’s shoulders tensed under Carmichael’s scrutiny. Carmichael flicked away his cigarette. He glanced away casually then quickly spun back towards him. Paul felt a crunch as Carmichael shoved him against the glass front of the pub, smashing his head. Carmichael’s elbow was crushing Paul’s windpipe.
“Who did you talk to?” Carmichael shouted in his face.
People in the street were stopping to stare at the commotion. Sheila came to the pub door, watching them in confusion. Paul kicked out impotently; Carmichael’s arm had fastened him to the glass.
“You little shit. I know who you work for.” His spittle flew in Paul’s face as he struggled to break free. Paul kicked out again. “Did you tell him? Did you run home and phone Munroe?”
Carmichael pressed hard against his throat and gave one last shove before letting him go. Paul doubled up, gasping for air.
“I’m watching you.” Carmichael pointed a finger in his face.
“What… the… fuck? I’ll have your… FUCKING… job for that.”
“Scum. I’m coming after you.”
Carmichael marched off. Paul started after him but stopped himself and instead doubled back, bursting past Sheila back into the pub. From the horror-stuck faces of everyone inside, he knew they had heard. He paced in the middle of the floor, not sure where to go, what to do.
“What are you all looking at!” he shouted.
A strained hush fell on the room, broken by the click of Sheila’s feet on the floor as she sidestepped round him like he was some kind of dangerous animal. She picked up her coat and bag, watching his every move with tears in her eyes. When she was safely at the door she spat at him and backed out of the pub. It landed on the floor at his feet. Chairs overturned as others followed her out.
Paul slammed the bar with his fist and knocked over a stool. Kicking anything else that got in his way, he went behind the counter, grabbed a bottle and poured himself a shot. Whisky splashed over the bar. He watched the tremor of his hand as he held up the glass, then downed it. He banged the empty glass on the bar and poured another. It felt good, the quick sharp flick of his fingers as he upturned the glass, the liquid burning his insides on the way down, leaving behind a hazy numbness.
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