Murder Mile (17 page)

He walked over to her, stood with the belt in his hand, tapped it off his leg. His heart pounded beneath his T-shirt.

‘Hendy? … What are you doing with that?’ Her voice trembled,
her
eyes darted between the flapping belt and the fist that held it tightly.

Henderson smiled, a weak smile at first, then it grew up the side of his face like a smirk. He felt Angela’s fear, her terror growing with each second, and he drank it in.

‘What did I say to you?’ he said. He could feel the blood surging in his veins, his arms tensed.

Angela put her hands out behind her, started to edge backwards on the mattress, towards the wall. Her feet pushed her back in a slow, cautious movement. Henderson watched her feet, saw they weren’t just dirty on the soles, they were caked in filth that rested in her high arches and sat between her toes. He raised the belt, his chest expanded briefly as his shoulder swung, and then he brought the leather down upon her legs with a loud smack.

Angela curled over and screamed, she brought her hands towards her legs. Henderson lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, ‘What did I say to you?’

She was crying now, tears streaming down her red cheeks. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

Henderson raged, ‘Too fucking right you don’t. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told you … I’ve fucking lost count.’ He brought the belt up to her face, paraded it in front of her eyes. ‘I’ll take the fucking skin off you … Every fucking inch of it. I mean it. Do you fucking doubt me?’

Angela raised her hands from her legs, tried to grab at Henderson’s arms as he struggled with her. He knocked her arms down, forced the fist with the leather strap into her mouth and she fell heavily to the exposed floorboards. For a moment she was lifeless, lying like a doll on the floor and then she started to shift her head from side to side, moaning all the while. Henderson stood over her, dangled the leather on her face; as he did so he saw her open her mouth; her teeth were bloodied.

Henderson knelt down, draped the belt over Angela’s neck and positioned his hands either side of it. As he pressed down he watched her struggle, her legs thrashed, her nails dug into the belt as she
tried
to free herself. Her face tightened and grew dark, her eyes started to bulge. When he was sure she was about to pass out he released the belt but kept his knee in her chest.

‘Now, I want that teacher’s name, Ange … and I fucking-well want it now.’

Angela coughed, spluttered. She pushed at the knee on her chest and Henderson lowered it into her windpipe. ‘I’m telling you, if you think he was a bastard, you want to see me when I get going … Now give me the fucker’s name or it’s the end of the road for you, Ange.’

She continued to struggle, her eyes tightening then bulging out once more. She smacked at the knee in her windpipe and tried to speak but no words came. She looked like a trapped animal, thought Henderson; he enjoyed the power he had over her.

‘Now if I let you up you better tell me what I want to know … I mean it,’ he slapped the belt off the floorboards beside Angela’s head. ‘I’ll fucking take the skin off you if you mess me about, Ange.’

Henderson withdrew the belt, stood up slowly, cautiously. He watched Angela’s every move as he rose. She shot hands to her throat, then started to cough. She lay on the ground spluttering for a few moments and then the colour started to return to her face. Henderson continued to watch her, feeling nothing but contempt. He would gladly end her days, he thought. She was nothing. Worse than nothing. She’d been on the streets since she was seventeen, and by her twenties she was worn out, worthless. Nobody was going to be paying for her skanky arse in the years to come, she was finished. He watched her pitch herself up on her elbow, lean over and start to gag; she was always puking up. Fucking puking up or shooting up, he couldn’t face looking at her. He gripped the belt tighter in his hand, felt an urge to bring it across her face, but resisted; she could do one thing, just one thing that would pay her way.

Angela coughed, fitted. Her eyes were veined in a red spider’s web as she slowly began to speak, ‘Crawley …’

‘What did you say?’

She hesitated, tried to gather her breath. ‘The teacher, he’s called Crawley.’

Henderson felt himself draw a wide smile. He watched as Angela toppled over once again, started to gag on her own vomit. He let her be sick, then pushed her onto the mattress with the heel of his shoe. As she curled into a foetal position he started to thread the leather belt back through the loops of his jeans. He laughed out, said, ‘Aye, well, you came good in the end, Ange … Told you it wasn’t going to be hard, didn’t I?’

Angela brought her arms around her, started to shiver. Her eyes were closed tight; it was as if she was reliving a memory she didn’t want to see again. She looked like a small child in the grip of a nightmare. ‘You won’t find him,’ she said.

Henderson halted, dropped the buckle in his hands, it dangled over the front of his jeans. ‘What did you say?’

She was trembling harder now, brought her hands up to her head and gripped at her dirty blonde hair. ‘He left the school,’ the words looked like a struggle for her. ‘Not long after what happened, he moved to another school.’

Henderson raised his hands, clenched fists, then dropped them at his sides. He put a heavy foot on the mattress and stepped forward, his eyes darted. ‘What do you fucking mean moved schools?’

Angela’s words were shrill and sharp. ‘He moved. That’s all I know. I don’t know where he went. I don’t fucking care.’

Henderson got down from the mattress, walked towards the window. He stood there fastening his belt buckle, hoisting up his jeans again and tucking in his T-shirt. A dog barked outside the window as he looked into the city streets. It was early morning and suited-up businessmen were lined seriatim at the bus stop. A woman on a bicycle passed them by. Henderson watched the day unfolding before him from his first-floor vantage point and then he stroked the stubble on his chin.

‘He’s not fucking far away though,’ he said.

He heard Angela stirring behind him as he reached forward and removed a Kensitas Club from the packet on the window ledge; there was only one cigarette left. He lit up, inhaled.

‘
What
?’

Henderson continued to stare out into the city streets. A homeless man swooped the gutters for dowps, he gave up and started to beg at the bus queue. Henderson shook his head; a woman with a dog was crossing the road now.

‘I said, he’s not far away … Crawley.’ He savoured the word, his new knowledge was power to him.

Angela pushed herself up on the mattress, brought her knees under her chin. ‘I don’t know that.’

Henderson turned from the window, pointed his cigarette at her. ‘Aye, well I do. And it’s best you leave the thinking to me.’

She rubbed at her shins, said, ‘How, though? How do you know?’

Henderson had turned away from her again, he leaned forward, his nose pressing hard to the window. As he spoke, his breath frosted the glass. ‘Because if he’s up to his old tricks, like they said on the news the other night, then he must be in Edinburgh.’

Chapter 23

HENDERSON’S PLAN WAS
a simple one, but it involved one more piece of help from Angela. After waking from a doze and watching her fitful dreams for a few minutes he realised he wasn’t able to sit in the flat with her; he decided to let her sleep off her fix for a few hours. The place stank anyway, it was utterly rank. Worse than prison. There were pools of vomit on the floor; used works scattered every where; used condoms. How could he live like this? He didn’t want to be there any more, but he had nowhere else to go, no money. Certainly not the type of money he needed to repay his debts to Boaby Stevens. The thought burned in him, haunted his every thought like an incubus.

Henderson took the money Angela had earned on the Links and went to the nearest pub, ordered up a pint of lager. The bar was quiet, only dole moles and an old jakey with a blue nose who was likely to be turfed out at any minute for singing ‘Danny Boy’. Henderson retreated to the corner, selected a bentwood chair, glabrous with age, and positioned it against the wall. As he supped his pint he felt himself watching the window, the door; he didn’t want to be caught in there – on the piss – when he had a debt to pay to Shaky. That would be like incitement; suicidal. He found himself anxious to leave, and, after only a few sips, started to gulp the lager.

Outside on the street again he felt even more self-conscious, found himself hugging the shop fronts as he headed back to the flat; he was desperate not to be seen. Once inside the main door he lunged up the stairs, holding the door key out in front of him. As quickly as he had opened up he closed the door again, pressed his back to it. He felt his heart beating fast beneath his denim jacket as he rested there. He was sweating, hard. He removed a hand from the door, ran the back of it across his brow, trailed wearily towards the front room.

Angela was still lying face down on the stained mattress. Her hair was spread either side of her head like she had brushed it out that way. Henderson put his key in his trouser pocket, started to undo the buttons on his jacket. He stood over her for a moment, scratched at his elbow then spoke, ‘Ange … Time to make a move.’

She remained still.

‘Ange, come on … Get yourself out that pit.’ He reached down, pulled a clump of her hair.

She raised a hand, yelped. ‘What is it?’

‘Come on, get yourself out that fucking bed …’

‘Why?’

‘Cause I fucking said so.’ He dug a shoe in her ribs, not hard, but enough to make her sit up.

Angela’s eyes drooped as she tried to take in Henderson, standings above her with a mobile phone in his hand. She lifted her arm, ran fingers topped with chipped red nails through her long hair. ‘What time is it?’

‘Never fucking mind that … Here take this phone.’

Angela reached out, took it. ‘What’s this for?’

Henderson had started to pace the room, his shoes thumping on the dusty boards. ‘I want you to phone that school of yours.’

‘What?’

‘You fucking heard … Call them up and ask where this Crawley prick went to.’

Angela stared at him; he had his hands on his hips, then quickly
removed
one to brush at the stubble on his chin. He moved forward, sat on his haunches as he spoke to her, ‘Look, all you need to say is that he used to be your teacher and that you’re having some kind of a reunion and wanted to ask him along.’

Angela looked weary now, she slumped on the mattress. Henderson leaned forward, pitched himself on his knees as he pointed at the mobile phone. ‘Look, I’ve even put the number in there for you … See, scroll down, Porty Academy … Easy.’

Angela looked at the small screen on the phone, then back to Henderson. His mouth was twitching, there was sweat on his brows. ‘What if they say no?’

He shot up from the mattress, ‘They won’t say no … if they say no it’s because you’ve fucked it up, because you’ve put the shits up them.’ He walked to the doorway, pointed at her. ‘Get on that fucking phone now, call them and find out where this Crawley cunt is because if you don’t your life’s not going to be worth two fucks, Ange. I mean it.’ He left the room and headed into the bathroom.

As she sat on the mattress Angela’s breathing ramped up, she stared at the little screen on the mobile and then she pressed the button Henderson had shown her.

In the bathroom he heard Angela’s voice in the other room. She was doing what he had asked her. He didn’t want to consider the junky whore messing it up; that didn’t bear thinking about. He didn’t want to picture some snooty school secretary refusing to answer a simple question either. He remembered what they were like when he was at school; they were all old boots. All middle-class square pegs that looked down their noses at you. Why would they do you a favour? Why would they help you out of a hole? They had never done anything for him before, that lot; or anyone like them. But Henderson knew that if he didn’t find Crawley soon, he might as well hand himself over to Boaby Stevens right away.

He ran the taps in the bathroom and put his hands under the water, splashed his face. He rubbed the water on the back of his
neck
and then he ran more through his hair. It felt cold, relieving some of his tensions. It was short-lived though. As Henderson dried himself off with the towel, he realised that Angela had stopped talking in the other room.

She knocked on the bathroom door.

Henderson turned, opened up. ‘Well?’

She stood there with her dishevelled hair flopping in her eyes and the black eyeliner she wore from the night before streaking her face. ‘He’s at Edinburgh High.’

Chapter 24

DI ROB BRENNAN
awoke early, found his eyes fix on the orange swirl of curtain that lapped into the room. The street lamp still burned outside, a blustery wind soughed against the windowpane which rattled in its frame. He slumped, rested his head on the pillow for a moment, then reached for his cigarettes. The first breath of nicotine tasted good to him, stilled the thoughts that were stirring in his head. Through the wall he could hear a games machine playing; already? he thought. He looked at his watch, it had barely gone seven. He was surrounded by wasters: students and the work-shy. How had he arrived at this point? he wondered. He knew the answer instantly, but didn’t want to face it. He raised himself on the edge of the bed, took another long drag on his cigarette and brushed a weary hand through his unkempt hair.

Brennan looked at his feet, wriggled his toes into socks and rose. His trousers hung over the back of a chair, the belt still threaded through the loops. He reached for them, stepped in. His shirt and tie had been beneath them. The tie was in a Windsor knot, slackened, but held in the same place it was the day before by the button-down collar. He looped the crinkled garment over his head and tucked the shirt tails into his trousers. His shoes were on the other side of the room and the floor felt cold beneath his feet as he crossed the boards.