Crow Bait (28 page)

He grasped the knocker and gave it a series of heavy bangs. He waited on the doorstep, not sure what he would do when the door opened but trusting in his instincts, in his gift. The dark thing, Sammy had called it, something sinister and insidious inside him that would consume him if he let it. He needed it now. For now, it was his friend.

There was no sound from beyond the blue door and Davie touched the wood as if he could see through it with his fingertips. The paint was not new and some of it flaked off under his touch. He laid his hand flat against it, pushing against it, but there was no give. He stepped back and stooped against the window to the left, both hands up beside his face to shield the daylight and try to see into the gloom beyond but a heavy lace curtain concealed the interior. He was straightening up again when a woman’s voice said, ‘You looking for Mister McAllister?’

She was coming out of the cottage next door, a tartan shopping trolley in her hand. She was in her mid-fifties, small and squat, her face friendly and open. She locked her door and looked to him for a response as she unfolded the trolley handle.

‘Yes,’ he answered, the name McAllister throwing him only momentarily. ‘I thought he’d be in. He’s expecting me.’

‘Aye, well, he’s no in, saw him go out a wee while ago.’ She dropped her keys into her open handbag and turned away. Davie felt first relief then, instantly, guilt. Danny had Audrey, he reminded himself.

Davie asked, ‘You know him well?’

She stopped again. ‘No, no really. He’s no here all the time. Travels a lot. He’s nice enough, though. Quiet. Doesn’t bother anyone.’

He didn’t know why he’d asked her about him. A need to know what others thought of his father, perhaps, someone who didn’t know the history. His next words really surprised him. ‘He’s my father.’

She leaned in and studied his face. ‘Aye, I see that now. You’ve got his look about you, so you have. He said he’d been married but he never mentioned he had a boy. No seen him for a while, have you?’

Davie shook his head, still wondering why he felt it necessary to tell this woman what he had. ‘Any idea where he could be?’

Her eyes narrowed and a guarded look crossed her face, but she said, ‘He’s got a shed down on the beach, just beyond the harbour there. It’s an old fishing hut type of thing. He sometimes sits down there, sunny days. Can spend hours there by himself, reading, watching the sea. Although,’ she looked up at the grey sky, at the gathering clouds, and tightened her coat around her neck with one hand, ‘cannae see him down there in this weather. Still, it’s worth a try.’

Davie thanked her and she nodded once before she wheeled her trolley up the street. As Davie watched her go he heard the door open and Fraser peered out. ‘She gone?’ Davie nodded and Fraser widened the door and stepped back. ‘You need to come in and see this.’

Davie gave the woman’s back another look but she didn’t turn round, so he ducked inside and closed the door behind him. Fraser had left the small entranceway and was standing in the cottage’s living room to the left, studying something out of Davie’s eyeline. Davie followed him and stopped when he saw what Fraser was looking it.

The blackboard was sitting in the middle of the room, its surface covered in photographs and bits of paper. There were shots of Rab, Luca and Bobby, all taken without their knowledge. There was another couple of Vari and a slip of paper pinned nearby with her address. Even the dark-haired girl who had been at the party who’d left without so much as exchanging a ‘hello’. But mostly there were pictures of Davie. Most had been taken since he’d got out of Barlinnie – one was even of him shaking hands with Bobby at the gates. There were snaps of him in the street, leaving Luca’s café, talking with Rab. But others were older, their colours fading. Him and Joe, separately and together, Rab and Bobby again. Even Mouthy Grant. And Audrey. There was a handful of Audrey, including one of them together in Glasgow’s city centre, outside the Dial Inn. Their first date. Danny McCall had been watching him for years, even before Joe died. He’d been following his friends while he was inside, recording their lives, looking for ways in. The blackboard was like a giant chess game and the people on it were the pieces. The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut and it sent something shimmering up his spine.

‘There’s more,’ said Fraser, his voice shaking and he pointed to a photo album on a table in the corner. Davie moved past the blackboard, grateful for the opportunity to take his eyes off the pictures, and flicked the book open. The first few pages were filled with newspaper cuttings, some about him, others with a single by-line.

‘Audrey’s stories,’ said Fraser. ‘He’s been stalking her, too. He’s got more pictures of her at the back. Her and me. One outside the church we got married in.’

Davie felt chill fingers caress the nape of his neck as he flicked the pages and found the photographs Fraser mentioned. His mouth was suddenly very dry and he licked his lips.

Davie stared at the picture of a smiling Audrey, in a cream dress, hanging on a kilted Les Fraser’s arm outside a church. The sun was shining and they were smiling, laughing, happy. And Danny McCall had been there. Davie had not. Davie had been banged up in Barlinnie and Danny McCall was out, taking pictures of Audrey. He could have snatched her anytime he’d wanted.

Fraser said, his voice hoarse, ‘What the hell kind of creep is your dad?’

‘A dangerous one,’ he said.

*  *  *

Les Fraser watched Davie as he studied the pictures, knowing that the guy was as horrified with the idea of the bastard following Audrey around as he was. He’d got through the back door easily, a couple of kicks under the lock had splintered the frame no problem. Fraser didn’t really care if anyone heard, that was the idea. If Danny McCall was inside they’d bring him down in no time, he was confident of that, if he wasn’t and a neighbour heard then so what? But the house was empty. He heard Davie talking to the neighbour outside so he’d taken the opportunity for a quiet poke around. He found a very interesting item in the bedroom, which he slipped in his pocket, before he’d entered the living room and came upon the picture gallery. He felt something sour churn in his belly as he gazed at the images of his wife, snapped without her knowing.

And now, as he stared at the younger McCall, watching him turn pale as he understood just how sick a puppy his father was, his hand snaked into his jacket pocket, where he felt the comforting weight of the automatic he’d found in the bedroom. His training as a copper told him he should have left it where it was, but he wasn’t a copper today. Davie McCall had talked about having an edge earlier on. This was his edge. And something told him he’d need it.

*  *  *

Audrey winced as the rusty metal sliced the flesh on her wrist, but she didn’t stop sawing at it with the bonds. She’d spotted the old hoe propped against one cobweb covered corner while she’d eaten the sandwich Danny McCall had brought her. She purposely did not look in its direction again throughout the period he was with her, for fear he might see it too. So she dutifully munched the food and drained the orange can then let him bind her wrists once more and thrust the gag back into her mouth but not the blindfold, which was something at least. He hadn’t said anything more throughout his visit. He’d gone into a kind of funk, as if he was about to do something he really didn’t want to but some force was dictating his actions. And then he’d left her. She waited for a few minutes listening to the sound of his receding footsteps crunch on the pebble beach outside, then began to writhe across the floor towards the old garden tool, her bound feet pushing her along. It was difficult but she made it in a few minutes and sat with her back to it, the ropes around her wrist resting on the blade. Then she began a sawing motion, hoping the rusting metal was sharp enough to cut the fronds. Every now and then her wrists slipped and the metal nipped at her flesh but she ignored it, although she did make a mental note to have a tetanus shot as soon as she could. It was slow going and she had no way of knowing if it was working but she knew she had to try. So she kept rubbing at the ropes, occasionally tugging her wrists apart to see if there was any give. She had no idea how long he would be gone but she had one chance at freedom, she knew that.

But the damn bonds would not loosen…

*  *  *

Davie led Fraser from the street to the grassy area that separated the shorefront houses of Ballantrae from the beach, which was no wide expanse of sand but a pebble and rock-strewn area that stretched southwards to more desolate shoreline and north to the harbour peppered with branches, barrels and wood thrown up by the tide He knew there was a similar beach beyond the harbour, running towards the hills and cliffs of Bennane Head. The wind was strengthening now, coming straight off the water, and he could taste salt in the air. He paused for a moment, trying to dredge a memory of a fisherman’s hut up that way but he had no recollection of it. He remembered many things about his holidays here, back when things had been good. He had played on the putting green, he had explored the shoreline in each direction, he had visited the ruins of the castle at the edge of the village, he had listened to his dad’s stories. He spoke of smugglers and cannibals, for a cave at Bennane Head was said to be the home of Sawney Beane, a robber turned eater of human flesh. His dad was a great reader and he had regaled the young Davie with all these legends and he had lapped them up. He also told Davie of the Kennedy family, who had owned much of the land around here in bygone days. His dad was filled with tales of the internecine struggle within that family for dominance and had taken him to the vault of Gilbert Kennedy in the village kirkyard and told him how he had been murdered by his own kinfolk. Brother had turned against brother and father against son.

And now here he was, seeking out his own father.

Beyond the harbour, the woman had said, and he could see the red-tinged stonework of the sea wall at the end of the grassy area. Waves crashed up against the sturdy buttress, sending salt water spray over the top like a plague of insects, while the grey sea beyond rose and fell as if something huge was swirling beneath the surface. The wind snatched at their clothes and picked at their hair as they set off at a lope towards the harbour.

*  *  *

She didn’t know how long she’d been sawing at the ropes, didn’t know how many times she’d nicked her wrists, but she did know she was bleeding because she could feel the blood sliding under the bonds, making them slippy. She worried about slicing open a vein and her skin stung where she’d been cut but she didn’t stop, didn’t give up. If anything she became even more frenzied in her efforts. And she was crying, not because of the pain, but simply because she couldn’t help it.

And then, suddenly, her arms sprang loose.

One minute she was scraping away, the next she felt the bonds give and she was free. Gingerly, she raised her wrists to inspect the myriad of slashes she’d inflicted on herself, each one streaming blood. None of them were particularly deep, thankfully, but they nipped like buggery. She wiped the blood onto her dressing gown and wiggled her frozen fingers before she pulled the gag from her mouth and then got to work on the knots at her ankles. It took a minute or two, because her fingers really were not in the mood, but she finally managed to free her feet. She rubbed the skin where the ropes had left red welts, and then tried to stand. She’d been immobile for too long and she was numb with cold so it took a few moments for the strength and circulation to get back into her legs. She was unsteady as she moved to the door, using the long handle of the hoe as a makeshift walking stick to help her along. She hadn’t heard a chain clanking or a lock turning when he had left earlier so she was confident it would open. She leaned against it, noting with satisfaction it moved fairly freely, then opened it enough to peek out.

A strong wind bit at her face as she pressed it to the gap. A deserted shoreline stretched off to hills one way, houses and the harbour in the other. The grey sea drove relentlessly onto the rocky sand before her, the white-tipped waves rising then dying against the land. She could hear nothing but the roar of the wind and the crash of the water. She knew she was on the Ayrshire coast as she could just make out the dark outline of the Ailsa Craig, although the Isle of Arran which should have been visible beyond it and to the right was lost in the gloom and the mist. The salty tang of the air was mixed with the sickly stench of the decaying seaweed that carpeted parts of the shoreline. Taking a deep breath, as if this was the first gulp of air she’d had in a long time, she put her shoulder to the door, eased it wider and stepped out. She turned to her left, knowing it was wiser to make for civilisation.

He was waiting for her just out of sight around the corner of the wooden boathouse. She didn’t see him at first but her heart hammered when she heard him say, ‘Took your time, darling. Thought you were never going to work it out.’

She whirled to see him leaning against the wall of the shed, smiling at her. And in that instant she realised he’d been playing with her. He did that, she knew. He played with Davie, he played with her, maybe he even played with his victims. He enjoyed tormenting people. And she knew that she hated him. She hated his smile. She hated the way he thought. She hated the fact that he looked so much like Davie.

She’d swung the hoe before she even knew she was moving. He hadn’t been expecting it, either, for she saw his smile falter just before the wooden handle cracked against his temple. His head snapped to the right and he staggered back a couple of paces but she didn’t wait to see if he lost his footing completely because she was moving herself, running across the beach towards the harbour walls. They were only a couple of hundred yards away but it felt longer as shattered shells and sharp stones pierced her bare feet and she slid on slimy seaweed. She didn’t want to look behind her but she did it instinctively and saw him pushing himself off the wooden slats of the boathouse wall and coming after her. There was a trace of red at his forehead and she felt some satisfaction at having hurt the bastard. Then she concentrated on reaching that harbour and the houses whose roofs she could see to the left. There had to be someone there, someone who could help her, anyone.