Hell To Pay (8 page)

Before I left, I’d given Conlan more Rohypnol. For a while, he’ll be lucky enough to remember his name, never mind warn his partner in crime about me. And, he won’t have his phone with my text messages because I removed the SIM card and battery and smashed it to bits before I dumped it down a garbage chute.

Chapter 20

DC McKeith's lanky frame loomed in the doorway casting a shadow so wide it could have been a net from a fishing trawler.

"You're not going to believe this, Sir, but an ambulance was called to an address in Shettleston last night. They found Paul Conlan tied up and drugged. Someone used a knife to carve the world 'Rapist' into his stomach. He was found naked but for a pair a boxers."

Waddell made a face. "Heck, Brian could you not have given me some warning? I've just eaten my breakfast."

"Sorry, Sir. I should have warned you it was a bit gruesome."

'Nah, I'm not talking about that. I'm picturing that fat bastard in his boxers. Enough to make anyone sick."

"Oh, right."

Christ, thought Waddell, this one was seriously missing a funny bone and if he thought a wee bit of carving was gruesome, he should have seen the man whose face had been shoved into a barbecue grill and held there. Waddell had seen that twenty years ago now and never forgotten it.

Waddell carried on. "He's one of Sandy McNab's boys, if my memory serves me right. Or, enforcers as the media like calling psychos who keep finding inventive uses for blowtorches and hammers."

"Aye," said, McKeith, who'd no doubt already had his nose in the file.

He was thorough that way and that's what would make him a good copper, one day. For now, it was as though Waddell had been entrusted with a wee ducking and had to teach it how to swim, although on reflection, McKeith was more of a cygnet.

"Is there any chance he's going to die? Get the crime stats down to make the Chief Constable happy?"

Waddell was disappointed when the young DC said there was no chance of that happening, because Conlan was a right piece of work. He'd once stabbed a man in the back and tried to rape the man's wife over a debt. The court case collapsed after witnesses withdrew their watertight testimonies. They tended to do that when Sandy McNab's lot were involved.

"They do reckon though that if someone hadn't phoned for an ambulance he could have got an infection and died or starved to death. He was still tied up when they found him."

Waddell pushed his paperwork aside. "Goodie. This is the day that just keeps giving. I take it Galbraith wants us to have a wee chat with our Mr. Conlan?"

"Aye, Sir. But, we'll need to wait. They found traces of Rohypnol in his system and he's talking a load of gibberish. The doctor’s saying that because of the Rohypnol he might not remember what happened for days, weeks or at all."

Waddell knew the score when it came to that drug. He knew there were men roaming the streets who should have been in prison for rape, but because they’d used Rohypnol, a power sedative intended to treat sleeping disorders, they were free men. Rohypnol took away folk's memories or they became fragmented. That's why it was the date rapist's drug of choice.

"Righty ho, Brian. We'll pay him a visit as soon as he regains his faculties, although he wasn't the brightest star in the constellation to start with. Chances are he'll still be talking shite."

Waddell was a wee bit disappointed that they couldn’t see Conlan. He fancied getting a break from all this paperwork that was piling up faster than used up reality TV stars, even if it was just for a trip to the infirmary.

Then, as McKeith was about to close the door, a thought popped into his brain. There was someone he had to visit, although he doubted they would be pleased to see him either.

"Grab your coat, Brian. We need to pay a certain young lady a visit."

He filled Nancy Drew in on the way there.

Chapter 21

My latest ’home’ has a big bay window large enough for a table and two chairs and that's where I'm sitting with DI Waddell whilst his leggy sidekick sits on the sofa peering at me over his specs.

"Nice view you have here, Nancy,'" chirps Waddell.

"I like it."

One of the nicer parts of Glasgow, in the Hyndland area you could pretend that you're out in the countryside. Trees sway in the breeze and there was greenery everywhere. Bit pricy though, so I can only afford a small studio apartment.

Waddell pulls himself up straight. "I won't beat about the bush. Last night, a man was found at an address in the city. Someone had given him a goodbye gift with a knife. You don't happen to know anything about that do you, Nancy?"

"Of course not. Why would I know anything about that?"

Waddell presses his hands together. "This man says the last thing he remembers was meeting a woman."

I pull myself up straight, not shying away from his stony gaze. "There are a lot of women in Glasgow, Inspector."

I'm not worried about Conlan identifying me. He won't be compos mentis for a while yet as Rohypnol's effects can take 24 hours to wear off. And if he did, he could hardly say it was me because then he'd be incriminating himself.

Waddell fixes me one of his serious stares. "But, there's not many who would carve the word rapist into a man's stomach."

"Maybe he is a rapist." I say it like a member of the public trying to help the police not like a vigilante.

"That may or may not be so, but when a crime is committed we have to investigate, no matter who the victim is."

"I understand."

Waddell fixes me with an earnest look. "I shouldn't be telling you this, Nancy, but he was in the frame for your parents' murder and your assault until an alibi from his girlfriend and mother ruled him out of any involvement."

I try to appear shocked by this revelation.

Waddell puts a hand on his chest. "Nancy, you do know that you shouldn't take justice into your own hands? That's vigilantism and in Glasgow we don't allow vigilantism."

He says vigilantism like it's a dirty word; I prefer to call it revenge.

"Where were you last night between 8pm and midnight, Miss Kerr?"

Waddell's had enough of me and it was the lanky one's turn to ask the questions.

I swallow. "Do I have to answer that?"

Legs (as I’m now going to call him) noisily flicks to a new page in his notebook. “It will help eliminate you from our enquiries if you do.”

"Fair enough. I was at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at St Christopher's Church it started at seven and ended about nine then I went home." My gaze falls to my lap. "Since I got out of the hospital I've been addicted to prescription painkillers."

Waddell and Legs make no comment as they get up to leave.

"Take care of yourself, Nancy," says Waddell, before I close the door.

"Do you think she's lying, Sir?" said McKeith as they drove back to the station.

"I honestly don't know, Brian. But, I do have an inkling that she's holding something back. I have from the beginning."

Waddell almost grinned. He’d just noticed that when the young cop frowned he looked like Stan Laurel.

He carried on talking. "We'll need to see if Conlan can identify this woman. It won't be easy though because of the drugs. It causes memory loss and he didn’t have many brain cells to start with."

McKeith tapped the steering wheel. "It's her alibi that's bothering me, Sir."

"I know what you mean, Brian. It's one she knows we can't check. They're guaranteed complete confidentiality at those meetings. You couldn’t prise that information out of them with a warrant."

McKeith's face was animated behind his glasses. "Doesn't mean we can't do some detective work, though Sir, does it?"

"Go ahead, Brian. It'll have to be in your own time though. Galbraith won't sanction any overtime. There's not enough cash."

And wasn’t that the story of the police service these days: too many criminals and not enough money to make sure there were officers available to catch them.

Chapter 22

Paul Conlan was not a pretty sight, thought Waddell as a small, blonde nurse led them to his bed, but then he'd never been George Clooney to start with. When he was born, his mother must have tried to push him back in again.

The angry red burn on his cheek was still visible under the bandages they'd put there to treat the wound and the best thing about that was it hid some of his face.

Waddell and McKeith showed Conlan their warrant cards and got a glower in return.

"Hello, Mr. Conlan. I'm DI Waddell and this is DC McKeith. We're here to find out what happened to you. Are you able to talk?"

Conlan snorted, "Aye" as he peered at them with ferrety eyes. "So you are. You're here to stitch me up."

He made an oink noise. "Think I smell bacon."

Waddell ignored him and sat down as McKeith took the other chair and opened his spiral notebook.

McKeith was first to speak. "Can you tell us what happened to you, Sir? Anything that you remember?"

Waddell noticed that McKeith didn’t say sir in the same sarcastic way other officers would have, especially after the bacon remark and was impressed.

Conlan still eyed him as though he was pond scum. "I was meeting this bird. Right hot piece she was and she was well up for it. Next thing I know, your lot are kicking down the door, my stomach's stinging like a bastard and my face has been burnt and I'm fucking freezing."

McKeith read out the address where they'd found him.

"Ring any bells?"

Conlan said he wasn’t sure.

"Do you remember anything about the assault itself?"

Conlan seemed to be concentrating hard. Waddell was amazed there wasn't smoke belching out the man's ears.

"Nah, it's all hazy."

Waddell cut in. "Are you sure it was a woman you were meeting who did this to you? You don't keep very good company, do you, Paul? There’s plenty of folk who’d enjoy teaching you a lesson."

Conlan scowled, which made him look even uglier. "Nah. I don’t know if it was her, but who else would do that to me? Got to be some crazy bitch."

Waddell had checked the reports. Conlan had been accused of sexual assault before, but both victims had dropped the charges. Waddell was a firm believer that where someone was accused of something twice, there were almost always more victims out there. They’d need to dig into the files to see what they could come up with. It would make sense that one of the women he was accused of assaulting had done this to him. Or, maybe their husband or boyfriend in an act of revenge.

He tried to hide the derision in his voice. "Okay, you know the drill, Paul. We need a description of this woman and details of how and where you met her."

Conlan went red in the face." Alison. That little cow Alison. She was a friend of hers. She must have been behind this."

"Who’s Alison?"

"My bird," said Conlan.

They didn't get much more out of him. He was too busy moaning about police harassment and his girlfriend knifing him in the back - apparently she hadn’t been in to visit him. The description Conlan gave of the mystery woman could fit thousands of women in the city, including Nancy Kerr - if she’d made a good job of disguising herself.

Nobody in the bar where he'd met the woman could remember her. They told them to check back at night because the new barmaid was scheduled to work a shift then.

Conlan's home was their next port of call. It was empty. His missus must have seen sense and bolted like Conlan said; all that was left was a child’s chute in the garden and a football.

Good luck to her, thought Waddell. She was better off without the likes of Paul Conlan in her life.

Chapter 23

Classy is not a word anyone would ever apply to the lap dance bar. Located in a seedy city center back street, you couldn’t miss the joint. And, if you did, there was a neon sign with the words
The Dollhouse
emblazoned across it. If you still weren’t sure you had the right place, in the window, there was a flashing sign that said ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ in case anyone was in any doubt that this place was full of girls.

There were two bouncers on the door talking to a very vocal stag night party when I got there. At the head of the pack was a man who was naked but for a loin cloth. At his side was the ugliest Cinderella I’d ever seen.

My eyes are drawn to them at first, but then I see the tall figure of Shaun Yates. I’ve no doubt it’s him. I’ll never forget those cruel eyes. They seemed to bore their way into me as he raped me. Dead eyes for a dead heart.

Once the stag party was escorted inside by a leggy blonde dressed in a cheerleader’s outfit, I rush over to Yates with a panicked expression on my face. I've dabbed my eye make up with water so he'll think I've been crying.

He eyes me up and down.

"Sorry, love," he says, "nice tits, but we’re no looking for any more tarts. You’re a bit long in the tooth anyway. What are you – 29, 30?"

He snorts at his own joke and the boy man standing beside him joins in.

It takes all my self-control not to grab a hold of him and grind his smug mush into the ground until his eye vessels popped like balloons. Thanks to that remark, any trepidation I thought I'd have when I saw him are gone; replaced by simmering rage.

"Are you Shaun Yates?"

It’s a struggle to keep my voice level.

"Who wants to know?"

He doesn’t speak; he growls. For anyone who thought cavemen had been consigned to prehistoric times, he was the proof they hadn’t died out.

"Paul. Paul Conlan sent me." I'm breathless. "He said you were a friend of his. He’s in trouble. He needs your help."

The sneer vanishes. "Oh, aye. What kind of bother has he got himself into, now, then?"

Casting a nervous glance down the street, I move in closer to Yates, so I’m standing between him and his pal. The revolting stench of his aftershave makes me want to take several steps back; he must have taken a bath in the stuff and drank it. The more repugnant the man, the more they seem to splash the stuff on.

"Paul wouldn’t tell me. He said something about some urgent job needing done and needing your help. He says there’s good money in it."

Mentioning money was the magic word.

Yates turned to the boy man. "Ritchie, get Billy and Asif out here pronto."

Ritchie trots back into the club.

Yates instructs me to wait for him in the alley behind the club because he’s "got a few things to sort out before he can leave."

Damn. I hadn’t expected him to come straight away, trotting alongside me like a puppy but the thought of waiting worries me. But, what can I do? I need to hit him tonight, before Conlan can warn him. That’s if he even remembers me.

With my trusty Taser in my handbag, I stand and wait in the alley. 

One of the dancers comes out for a cigarette and we exchange nods. She’s wearing a long coat, pulled over her skimpy outfit. After a few puffs, she faces me.

"Not here for a try out, are you?"

My lips twitch at the corners; if only she knew why I was really here.

I shrug. "Nah, I don’t think I’ve got the body for it, or the moves."

A warm smile brightens up her face, taking away any hardness. "I think you could do it."

"Thanks."

The smoke from her cigarette snakes its way into the air and I want to get underneath the cloud and inhale. Smoking was one of the things Michael made me give up, along with my antique patchwork bedspread and the matching Gothic candlesticks from my old place. When I think back, it’s the only thing I'm glad I gave up, but that doesn't stop the cravings. Sometimes I'd stand outside with smoking workmates just to inhale the fumes.

With a wee wave, and a comment about not being paid to stand around, the girl heads back inside to the pounding beat. Her movements are as sleek as a cat’s and I can imagine she must be popular because she’s a stunning girl.

Checking my watch, I see Yates has been gone ten minutes now. What the hell is he doing? Is he even coming back?

My plan is to lure him back to another place I’ve rented, zap him with the Taser to incapacitate him and then inject him with Midazolam, a nifty sedative used to treat patients with dental phobias. That will make him pliable enough so I can find out who he’s working for. Rohypnol hadn’t been the truth serum I was hoping for: even a weakling like Conlan wouldn’t give his boss up. Yates will be a harder nut to crack so I need a better drug.

It starts to rain, so I’m huddling in the doorway waiting for Yates, when a hand is clamped over my mouth.

A tequila smell wafts its way up my nostrils and tickles my throat. Kicking out, I try to bite down on the hand but something’s in the way. A glove? Some sort of material?

Fuck.

Then I hear Yates's voice.

"You made a big mistake, hen. Coming after me."

I’m getting drowsy.

As the ground swirls up to meet me, Yates words ring in my ears: "I know who you are."