MacNeill smiled, chilling Eve to the core. ‘Dead would’ve been good, but the way things turned out? Couldn’t have asked for better – the bitch gets to suffer every day, a constant reminder of what she did. You too.’ MacNeill motioned towards Eve’s legs, hidden beneath the table.
‘Your son was a vicious bastard, a drug dealer who terrorized the streets and a rapist to boot. Did you ever see the photographs of what he did to Lynne?’
They were clear in her mind. It tortured her, wondering whether it was how her mother had looked after what Eve’s father had done to her.
MacNeill shrugged. ‘The cow deserved everything she got. Word is she was putting it about.’
‘Come on, MacNeill, your son had her under lock and key. She was terrified, been getting battered and raped by him for years.’
‘She needed kept under control.’
Eve’s nostrils flared, but she said nothing. There was no point with a monster like MacNeill. The man had reared his son true to his own form. That fact haunted Eve. She’d always feared which traits of her father were in her, what lay beneath the surface of the person she was determined to be. She shook the thought from her mind, focused on MacNeill. Eve struggled to believe that his long-suffering wife, Johnny Jnr’s mother, still visited like clockwork.
‘Anyway, I’m forgetting. You probably would’ve enjoyed the photographs, and the last thing I want to give you is any pleasure in life.’ Eve lifted the plastic cup of water in front of her, sipped and took her time lowering it to the table before continuing.
‘I hear she’s thriving. The only good to come out of what happened is that Lynne, after years of trying to leave, finally got away. All thanks to their neighbour finally growing some balls and picking up the phone.’
MacNeill’s struggle with that first bit of information was visible. ‘I couldn’t give a shit how she’s doing. What I do give a shit about is the way you pigs went straight round there, no questions asked, and chased my son out of his own home.’
Eve laughed. ‘Your son was shimmying the drainpipe before we got to the top of the stairs. He chose to run. The state Lynne was in, he had no choice.’
Lynne lying unconscious in the bathroom: the image she could never shake. Bright-red blood spattered against the white porcelain of the toilet, sprayed across the flaking wall tiles, three jagged teeth lying by the grubby sink’s pedestal.
Then the car chase.
Six weeks in a coma. When Johnny Jnr finally woke, he didn’t remember a thing, including how to walk, talk or take a shit by himself. Last Eve heard, things hadn’t changed.
‘You were drunk that night.’ MacNeill said the words softly, taking Eve by surprise, not only with his tone.
The warder stared straight ahead, pretending not to hear.
MacNeill leaned forward. ‘I’m not speaking about the night you went after Johnny. I’m talking about the night we dealt with you.’
Eve’s blood gushed in her ears so loudly she wondered if MacNeill could hear it. She wanted to deny it to his face, even after Jenkins’ articles hinting at it time and time again through statements from MacNeill, accusations that were never taken seriously by her superiors, or anyone else. Why would they be from pond life like him – a drug dealer and someone with a grudge to bear?
Only Sanders, her husband Archie, Cooper, and of course, Elliott knew the truth. But there were those, DC Ferguson one of them, Mearns another, who clearly had questioned MacNeill’s accusations.
MacNeill’s sausage-like fingers were gripped together tight. They looked fit to burst. ‘I smelled it on you. Above the mint on your breath and your false steady walk. A walk that I took from you. I smelled it. As you lay there. You know I did. And you know that’s why you couldn’t save her.’
Eve dipped her eyes to the floor, tried to swallow the ball stuck in her throat, seeing that night playing out like a horror movie in her mind, frame by frame, in slow motion, like always.
Sitting outside the Queen Vic with Elliott. Her birthday. A reminder that she was here only because she’d been conceived through rape. A day she chose not to celebrate. Sanders collecting her from out front of the Queen Vic, and on the way to the call Eve sitting with her head tilted, eyes closed, realizing she was more drunk than she’d thought. Blaming the stress and lack of sleep for how quickly the wine had gone to her head, waving Sanders’ concerns away. The call-out wasn’t an address they’d ever been to and didn’t arouse any suspicion as they got out of the car and approached.
Eve was barely over the threshold when a burly skin-headed guy stepped out from a side room and slammed a baseball bat into her guts, bringing her to her knees – winded, ready to puke, the acid taste of partially digested red wine forced up to her throat.
Her first thought was Sanders. Right behind her. In danger. She tried to stand, but her legs failed her – dizzy with the shock, surprisingly unsteady with the drink.
Then a fist flew towards her, making contact with her cheek and eye, keeping her floored. She squinted, blood blurring her vision of Sanders being propelled along the hallway towards an open door.
She could make out an empty armchair, two more guys standing beside it, knew she’d seen them before. A carpet, 1970s swirls dominating it as well as the armchair, and she wondered why the hell that was registering in her foggy brain. Her eyes went to Sanders, watching the first heavy’s hand clutch the bun at the back of her neck, still pushing her forward, Sanders jogging to stop herself from tripping.
She was shoved into the room. And then silence. Eve couldn’t see her either. The next sound was MacNeill speaking. They were in trouble, even though the voice was too low to make out what he was saying.
That’s where she knew the guys from. MacNeill’s heavies, always in the background whenever he appeared on the news or in the press, bumping his gums about his son’s downfall.
Eve struggled to her feet, half-expecting the men she could see, one with a spider’s-web tattoo on his temple, to come at her. She needed to radio in for help, realized in that moment that she’d left the radio at the station when she knew she was off shift and headed to the pub.
Her mobile.
She patted her jacket pocket. Nothing.
Her trouser pockets.
It was there.
Relief flooded her. She pulled it from her pocket, held it up to her face, the numbered keys swimming in front of her eyes.
How the hell had she got so drunk?
She put out a hand to steady herself against the wall. She felt sick, unsure if it was the blow to her stomach or the drink.
How could she have been that stupid? To drink and then agree to accompany Sanders?
She managed to unlock the phone, heart beating as she scrolled through for the number to dial. Found it. She looked ahead to make sure no one was coming for her … and dropped the phone. She moaned as she leaned forward, the hallway spinning as she bent to pick it up. The push to her backside stunned her, toppling her forward, face planting on the floor. She cried out as her nose hit carpet. She looked behind her – the same guy who hit her had shoved her on the backside. He was smiling.
She tried to get up, pushing her palms against the floor, forearms shaking as she did. All it achieved was exposing the mobile phone she had landed on. She watched helpless and in horror as the guy crouched beside her, snatched the phone from beneath her and stood. Her arms collapsed.
So close, just one more button to press and she would’ve made the call.
She saw the phone being placed on the floor by her head. In slow motion, she went to reach for it as she saw the big black boot come down on it, crushing and cracking the phone in front of her eyes.
And then she was being lifted. Roughly. Being shoved into the room that Sanders had disappeared into.
She steeled herself against the dizziness and the ringing in her ears, doubting the fight she had left in her. Her heart felt in danger of exploding. Eve stumbled, half-held up by MacNeill’s man. And froze.
‘Nice of you to drop by.’
Even in the rage that clouded Eve’s vision, she saw MacNeill weighing down on Sanders’ legs. Sanders’ radio was lying on the floor beside her, intact.
She flew across the room at MacNeill, all dizziness and unsteadiness forgotten in the adrenaline of fury. And then the baseball bat that had floored her was on her once again. This time targeted at her lower legs, sending her crashing to the floor, face first, her delayed reflexes stopping her arms protecting her from the fall, her stomach slamming against the threadbare carpet, vomit threatening again.
She’d known the heavy would act, but she hadn’t cared. She started caring around the fourth whack to the back of her legs and the side of her thighs when the searing pain registered through the red veil that had descended on seeing Sanders lying there.
As she howled in pain, she never stopped looking at Sanders, even when she saw MacNeill lift his foot and stamp on the radio, the crack audible above the chaos. Eve glanced to the smashed radio before looking at Sanders, sure she could see blame in her eyes.
If she hadn’t let her temper control her.
If she hadn’t rushed at MacNeill but tried something else that could’ve got her to the radio.
As the hate for herself crept in, Eve’s eyes were begging Sanders to fight, to get up. Realizing her colleague’s silence hadn’t been bravery but thick masking tape stuck fast against her mouth, binding her arms beneath her back, unable to reach the radio, to call for help. Sanders stared at her, pleading, probably desperately hoping Eve had used her mobile phone, tears trickling down the side of her face to the floor, both of them willing their eye contact to block out what was happening, to transport them out of there.
But the blows kept raining on Eve. Which one wrecked her leg, she’d never know. She’d forced herself to open her eyes when the blows stopped, saw MacNeill standing, stepping over Sanders and walking to one of his heavies. Smiling as he took the bat from his hands.
Everything slowed around Eve, every movement magnified, her lungs feeling like the air had been sucked from the room.
Fighting to stop what was about to happen, she dug her nails into the carpet, gathering everything she had left, trying to pull herself over to Sanders – even though she knew she’d never get there in time and could do nothing to stop what had been set in motion once she did.
She felt something weighing her down, turned her head to see what it was. MacNeill’s foot. He was stroking Eve’s cheek with the baseball bat, enjoying every minute. He lifted his foot and kneeled by her side, leaning in close.
‘Had one too many, Detective?’
Eve tried to grab MacNeill, catching fresh air instead.
‘Shit aim. It’s going to cost you, but your partner over there will pay more.’
MacNeill walked backwards to Sanders, each step painfully slow, never taking his gaze off Eve.
Eve had nothing left, was forced to look on, her brain struggling to process what she was seeing as MacNeill turned Sanders over on to her front, the shock of the attack leaving her as pliable as putty.
The last thing Eve saw was the baseball bat being lifted high above MacNeill’s head like a trophy, the fat on his upper arms wobbling as he stretched, and the slow-motion drop of the bat slicing through the air before it smashed into the base of Sanders’ spine. Hearing the crack of wood from somewhere far off, feet thudding against the floor, voices shouting, panic setting in around her.
Darkness.
To this day, they had no idea how MacNeill and his men had known they’d be on duty. All she did know was that they’d got what they wanted. Payback.
She and Sanders weren’t supposed to survive that night, wouldn’t have if Ferguson and another officer hadn’t been dispatched after a concerned call from a neighbour. The same way Lynne had been saved. Community spirit wasn’t dead after all. And neither were they. But they would never be the same again, Sanders especially. And she knew Ferguson still lived with the guilt that he should have got to them sooner. That no one had followed up on the call-out, even when it had been so long since Sanders or Eve had touched base. No suspicion or checks when perhaps there should have been. The realization his fellow officers were in trouble coming only once the neighbour called it in.
Payback. Nothing more, nothing less. And Sanders had been paying for it every day since.
Eve forced the thoughts away, her backbone now rock hard, fighting an urge to lunge across the prison table, to squeeze MacNeill’s fat neck until he took his last breath. Revenge. Prison wasn’t – never would be – enough.
‘Are you done?’ Eve stared at MacNeill.
‘Bitch. I’m never done. There’s always someone willing to run things out there for me.’
‘I’m not talking about running drugs. I meant with us. Me and Sanders.’
‘I’ll never be done until you tell everyone.’
‘Tell everyone what?’
‘That you were drunk that night. And the way you chased my son off that road was your fault and yours alone. That if it hadn’t been for you, my son might not be a fucking vegetable.’
Eve didn’t move.
MacNeill edged closer. ‘You think you’re safe out there, but I can get to you any time I want.’
Eve leaned in closer still, whispered. ‘Yeah, I was pissed that night. I’m not proud of that fact. But I’ll never give you your moment. And as for your son? As far as I’m concerned, he deserves everything he got.’
Eve leaned back fast, avoiding MacNeill’s attempt to thump her with his bound wrists, dodging the spilled water as MacNeill bumped against the table. She smiled as she sat back in her chair and watched the warder grapple MacNeill into the chair and on to his massive backside again. Not bad for a lightweight.
MacNeill was out of breath. Furious. Wanting to lash out but knowing that if he tried it again, he’d be removed.
Eve sat.
MacNeill was desperate for a bite. ‘I’ll finish what I started with you if I ever get out of this shithole. Meantime, I know plenty of people on the outside who are more than willing to have a little fun with you.’
Eve couldn’t be sure if he was playing her or not. But she did know he was pathetic – hard to believe she’d ever feared him. She reached inside her jacket, saw the warder shifting, getting ready to move again, but stopping when he saw what was in Eve’s hand.
Eve put the plastic-covered front page, the one of her and Sanders, on the table, turning it so MacNeill could read the headline.
‘You got anything to do with this?’
‘Yeah, you stupid cow, I was the one that made sure she wouldn’t walk again.’
Eve waited, searching MacNeill’s face for any sign he was keeping something from her. ‘This was sent to me recently. I wondered if you or one of your heavies were trying to tell me something.’
She didn’t divulge what it had been wrapped around, knew that MacNeill would know what had been going on from the papers and prison gossip but not about the newspaper cutting or how it would be connected to that. Nothing about the other headlines.
MacNeill nudged the article with his fist. ‘What if I am?’
Her neck pulsed. MacNeill was riling her.
‘It’s in your interests to tell me, to stop all this, if you are.’
MacNeill shook his head. ‘And spoil the fun?’
He was playing her; he had to be. Eve stood, pushed back her chair, not wanting to give him any more time, knowing he wouldn’t tell her anything even if he was behind what was going on.
‘You enjoy your time in here and the safety it brings you.’ She stared MacNeill down, powerful standing above the seated, shackled excuse for a man.
MacNeill wanted to keep her there, to have her under his control. When he spoke, Eve tried to look as if his voice and his words had no effect on her.
‘This is all going to come out. It’s going to expose you for the lies you told. They’re going to bring you down for Johnny Junior.’
Eve walke
d to the door.
‘Do you hear me, Hunter?’
MacNeill shouted over and over again. She stopped when she reached the door and turned, halting MacNeill’s tirade.
‘You failed to bring me down, MacNeill. And your son? He brought himself down. You think you won something getting me and Sanders that night? You think you’re going to win if you do have anything to do with this? You’re the one stuck in here.’
Eve walked from the room, wanting to believe that MacNeill was helpless in here – that he couldn’t possibly be responsible for what was happening on the outside.
Chapter 27
Mearns hid in the toilet cubicle and sat on the closed lid of the seat, reading the words on her mobile-phone screen again, looking at the smiley emoji at the end of them. Thinking of you. Want to do it again?
Mearns had never been short of male attention, and that hadn’t changed since her move to Aberdeen. But she’d always said no. No time for anything else but the job – wanting to make sure she held respect as an officer.
Why had she given in this time?
That night when Eve had given her a lift home from Cooper’s, the night she’d finally taken a good long, hard look at herself. She’d yearned to make her guilt and her feelings of failure disappear, to simply feel wanted and that she was a good person. She’d waited until Eve had driven away and then texted him to meet up, feeling more and more pathetic as she waited for him to reply. Thinking he was never going to. And then the relief when he had, and she’d gone to see him.
She’d awoken the next morning feeling regret, desperate to make excuses to leave, but he’d been standing there, a full tray of breakfast held in his hands, that side to him he kept hidden. She’d surprised herself by pulling him back into bed.
The last couple of weeks had been out of character. Letting someone in. She wasn’t sure it was what she wanted. Maybe she was using him to feel better about herself, to cope with the worst job she’d ever been on. She’d seen things on this case that she knew would never leave her and was more committed than ever to finding the bastard who was doing them.
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