Murder Mile (27 page)

Inside the stair, Henderson slammed the door with the heel of his shoe and then leaned his back flat against it. He let out a long, slow exhalation of breath and then he groaned audibly as he banged the back of his head into the wood panel. He jerked his head forward, then back again. The sound came like a hard slap at first, but as he increased the intensity of the blows, dull thuds like heavy footfalls echoed up the stairwell. He clenched his teeth shut. A rigid sneer set on his face as he pushed himself off the door and took to the first step.

Outside the flat Henderson paused for a moment; his fingers tingled as he drew fists and released them quickly. His thoughts turned over; danced between Crawley and his disappearance and the humiliation he had felt trying to pay off Boaby Stevens in the Wheatsheaf. He felt trapped; nothing was going to plan. It was supposed to be easy: hit the beast for a few quid and move on. Get rid of the deadweight around his neck that Angela had become and make a fresh start. It didn’t matter where, all that mattered was when. Henderson wanted to move on
now
. He grasped the door handle and walked in. ‘Ange, where the fuck are you?’

There was a groan from the front room. Henderson felt his cheeks flush as he studied the hallway. The place was in darkness, save for the light from the street that fell through the uncovered window. As he trod the bare boards, a grey half moon appeared through the window pane and drew a sickly gleam over the contents of the room. His eyelids twitched as he let his vision adjust to the new setting; on the mattress, curled in a ball, was Angela.

‘Jesus Christ … Look at the fucking state of you,’ said Henderson.

She let out a dull, muddled trail of words. He knew at once she was wasted.

‘Is this what you’ve been at tonight is it? … Fucking wasted
again.’
He grabbed her hair in his fist and turned her over; her cheekbones shone in the light of the half moon. ‘You fucking piece of shit …’

‘Hendy … I was …’

She didn’t get the words out before she was thrown heavily towards the mattress. Henderson stood back, cleared all expression from his face as he watched her holding her stomach, writhing in drug-addled confusion. Something snapped in him; his blank features became animated as he pulled back his fist and brought it down on Angela’s face.

She screamed out, at first it seemed in terror, and then, as the blows rained, her cries signalled a deeper agony. ‘Stop.
Stop
…’

‘I’ll fucking stop all right … stop when you’ve had some fucking sense drummed into you!’

Henderson kept up his attack until he lost his strength; the blows became weaker, not worth his effort. As he raised himself, withdrew, Angela was a curled, sobbing, bleeding tangle of limbs on the floor. He watched her for a moment; she lay trembling and rocking, crying. He felt no sympathy for her, she was trash.

He moved to the side of the window and lit a cigarette. His cheeks creased at the corners of his mouth as he inhaled deeply. The nicotine stilled his surging pulse for a moment. He coughed, ran open fingers through his hair.

‘Hendy …’

‘Shut the fuck up!’

He turned towards the window, looked out at the throngs of people on the pavement, the lines of slow-moving traffic clogging the road. The wind soughed against the pane and shook the frame in a loose rattle above the sill. The chill air in the flat made his moist forehead tingle after his exertions. He took another draw on his cigarette, turned back to Angela. Her drowsy eyes flickered as she took him in.

‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he said.

She scowled, pinching her bleeding nose and lips. ‘I-I tried to tell you … I t-tried …’

‘Tell me fucking what?’ He pointed at her, shook his head and looked away. ‘Ah, what the fuck do you know … fucking junkie.’

Angela pitched her voice higher, rose onto her knees. ‘He came to the Links … I was out there, I saw him.’

Henderson spat, ‘Crawley?’

Angela held out her hands, ‘Yes, he grabbed m-me.’

His breathing had steadied now, but suddenly stared to shorten again. ‘Why … I mean, what did he want?’

Angela swayed; unsteady where she positioned herself beside the mattress, she reached out a hand to the edge of the door frame to hold herself up. ‘He wanted to take me … He wanted to scare you.’

Henderson laughed, he scratched at the edge of his nose then quickly took another draw on the cigarette. ‘He thinks …’ he pointed to Angela with the tip of the cigarette, ‘I give two fucks about you, he thought that?’ He laughed, a spluttering guttural wheeze. The thought stuck in his chest like a winding. ‘He’s mistaken; fucking sorely so …’

Angela slumped to the side, reached out a hand to support herself as the delicate balance of her weight shifted. Her hair flopped in front of her eyes and she lowered her head towards the floor. Henderson watched her with a heavy thought settling on his mind; he stubbed his cigarette and headed towards the door. At the mattress he stood over Angela for a moment, contemplated levelling a boot at her head but the effort seemed unnecessary; she was already out of it. He reached under the mattress and removed the small mauve-coloured diary that she had shown him and tucked it in his jacket pocket. He bent over, grabbed her by the hair, raised her head off the floor a few inches, ‘You better get that hole of yours out on those Links … There’s no free fucking lunches in this world!’ As he released his grip, Angela’s head connected with the bare floorboards making a solid thud.

In Crawley’s car, on the way back to the teacher’s home, Henderson turned over his thoughts. His face sat tense as he held his jaw shut. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and his insides
felt
raw. What had Crawley been playing at? Showing up on the Links, trying to put a scare on Angela. Was he stupid? It was him Crawley needed to worry about, Henderson told himself. He gripped the wheel harder, felt his fingernails digging into the trim.

‘Fucking daft prick,’ he mouthed to himself.

The traffic had cleared, the roads starting to take on the deserted feel of this time of the night. Edinburgh gave over its centre to taxi cabs and stretch limos ferrying hen nights to and from the pubs and clubs after a certain hour. The city wasn’t a place for people who lived there at this time; it was for the out-of-towners, the party people.

Henderson passed girls, teetering on high heels in short, tight dresses, and rowdy groups of drunken revellers – boys, acting like men and their obverse: men who should know better than acting like boys. The place sickened Henderson at this time of night, it was all kebab shop fights and punters puking and pissing. He’d had enough of mixing it with their sort; where was his share of the good times? Where was his ease and comfort? He didn’t want to hear another word out of Angela; he didn’t want to be out on the Links watching her back or watching to make sure she was on her back. He’d had enough. He wanted something else, something he felt he’d earned, felt he deserved.

As he pulled into Crawley’s driveway, Henderson noticed the bulb burning in the front room: he was home. ‘Cheeky prick,’ he said. ‘Fucking sitting there bold as brass …’

Henderson killed the engine, opened the door and stepped out. He stood on the driveway scree for a moment, turned towards the house and then slammed the car door as loud as possible. He waited to see if there would be any movement in the house: the sound of the back door opening or the light going out. Nothing. Crawley was either unfazed or fronting it out like he was. Henderson felt his throat stiffen and his nostrils widen as he gasped a deep breath.

The front door was unlocked. He moved in, closed it behind
him.
The lamp with the tassels in the hallway was burning. It looked all too cosy. Henderson set his gaze on the door to the living room and stretched out a pace towards where he knew Crawley would be waiting.

As he entered the room the television blared;
Coronation Street
was just going into a commercial break, the ginger cat loping over the shed roof. Henderson watched the screen for a second or two, then followed the light as it bounced off the window pane. He moved towards the Venetian blinds, closed them and then returned to the television and switched it off. As he did so, Crawley appeared from the kitchen holding a mug of tea. He stalled where he stood, splay-footed, for a moment and then he proceeded into the living room and resumed his place on the sofa.

‘You must think I’m a fucking daftie, mate?’ said Henderson.

Crawley sipped his tea, rested the mug on the arm of the sofa. ‘I can’t say I’ve given you much thought … Lately.’

Henderson walked in front of him, ‘Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Have you fucking-well lost it?’

Crawley turned the handle of his mug to the other side, raised the tea to his lips and started to blow on it. His lips were pinched as Henderson slapped the mug from his hands and gripped his throat. ‘Don’t get cocky with me, you little cunt. I’m not a man who takes kindly to that.’

‘I’ve cancelled my cards,’ said Crawley.

‘You what?’

‘I think you heard. You’ll get nothing more out of me.’

Henderson stepped back, his brows furrowed and lined. His eyebrows sat low above his thinned eyes. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Do you want me to pick up the phone to the filth? Is that it, you got some hard-on for the world to know you’re a fucking beast all of a sudden?’

Crawley smiled, ‘Ah, now that might have worked earlier … But not now.’

‘Oh, you think?’

‘I know.’

Henderson stepped aside, raised a finger to wag in Crawley’s face. ‘You think that because Ange is on the Links now that makes an ounce of difference … Fucking no chance. They’ll toast your bollocks over a fire, beast.’

‘I don’t think so …’

Henderson smiled, ‘I know you saw her, on the Links … You think putting a scare on her makes any difference? It’s me you have to worry about.’

Crawley crossed his legs, started to drum a finger on his kneecap. ‘
You
threatened me … And
you
put a prostitute up to this. There’s not a court in the land will take your claims seriously. But more than that, I’m sure Angela will be too delicate to go through with any plans you might have.’

Henderson edged forward, a truculent gleam lit in his eye. He dipped inside his jacket pocket and removed the diary, threw it into Crawley’s lap. ‘Read it and weep, beast.’

‘What’s this?’ He raised the diary, turned over a few pages. ‘Some kind of diary … A schoolgirl’s diary.’

‘It’s Ange’s diary … She kept it at school, and guess what, you feature quite prominently in there, beast.’

Crawley thumbed through the pages; his eyes scanned left to right. For a moment he stalled on one of the pages then turned it. He turned another page and seemed to tire of looking at the diary altogether. ‘This is nothing … You can write anything on paper, it’s hardly incriminating.’

Henderson snatched the diary back, tucked it in his pocket. He took his palm across Crawley’s face; the smack lit a red streak from chin to brow. ‘Don’t fucking push it, beast … I could easy beat what I want out of you if you prefer.’

Crawley lifted his hands to his head; his crossed leg raised in time with the movement as his bravado left him. ‘You’ve had all I have!’

‘Bullshit.’

Crawley raised both feet from the floor and cowered on the sofa; he turned his head to look as Henderson raised his hand to level
another
blow. ‘No. Stop …’ Crawley reached into his trouser pocket and removed a bundle of notes, crumpled fives and tens. ‘Here take it … take it!’

Henderson grabbed the cash. ‘What the hell is this … Thirty-five fucking sheets!’

‘It’s all I have …’

‘It’s not enough!’

Crawley turned away, anticipating a blow, then sheltered his face beneath his elbow. ‘I have twenty more … In my jacket, it’s in the kitchen.’

Henderson’s pallor darkened, ‘You’re taking the piss.’ He slapped the top of Crawley’s head with the flat of his hands, ‘The piss, you’re taking the fucking piss …’ He brought another blow down, then gripped a fist. ‘Do you know what we do inside with beasts who take the piss?’ There was no answer. ‘No. Well, you’re going to fucking find out now, beast.’

Chapter 37

DI ROB BRENNAN
parked on the street outside Robbie’s Bar on Leith Walk. He had a strange tingling sensation playing in the pit of his stomach that he knew signalled apprehension. It had been some time since he had met up with Wullie Stuart, a man he held the utmost respect for since serving under him on the force. Wullie was old school, what they used to call ‘no nonsense’ but would probably be referred to these days as
unaware
, at best, as
difficult
at worst. The last time Brennan encountered Wullie he had been shocked, not by the physical deterioration of the man – although that in itself was a sort of shock – but by the way he had gone from a man of action to a man of inaction in seemingly one fell swoop. It had worried Brennan at the time – he felt for the old boy; but it had also been a sobering glimpse of what the future might hold in store for him when he gave up the DI’s role; or indeed, it gave up on him.

Robbie’s was one of the more lauded of Edinburgh’s drinkers; a long, dark and little bedecked bar stretched from the front door to the back where a mix of hardened bluenoses and tabard-clad office cleaners mingled with the shop and factory workers. It was not a place of shirts and ties, the sight of a mobile phone was greeted with disdain, down-turned mouths and headshakes. City people – Edinburgh’s real warts-and-all occupants – held court in
Robbie’s.
There was an unspoken chivalry that surrounded the interior like a poker-room pall; there were house rules here, but they weren’t written up and framed on the wall. It was the kind of place where, one step inside, you knew it was different from all the corporate superpubs with their cocktail specials, their discount microwave meals and their shiny teenage servers spouting, ‘Have a nice day, sir’.

Brennan walked through the door of the pub and took two paces towards the centre of the room. It was busy, Robbie’s was always busy, but it was a kind of busy that Brennan liked. Not jammed; not jumping. Just filled with enough people to create a homely atmosphere that was far enough away from home to let you forget the cares of such a place. A couple at the bar eyed him cautiously; they had a way of appraising him that made him think they were criminals. Brennan was used to it; he knew police stuck out for them – there was a banner draped around his neck that read ‘filth’ for these people – but that was OK, the opposite was also true. The whole elaborate police–criminal
pas de deux
was as instinctual as the hair rising on a cat’s back upon encountering a dog. It was as good a warning sign as any to remind them both to steer clear, or face the consequences, which were rarely pretty for either party. The key was toleration; social exclusivity was impossible and so they walked around each other, noting the other’s presence but obviating its impact. Brennan turned a hand into his trouser pocket and drummed fingernails on the bar with his other as he raked the room with his gaze. For a moment he thought he had been the first to arrive but then he spotted Wullie sitting at the far end; the sight of him struck like a lash. His old mentor was slouched over a pint glass, his frame and face shrunken; it struck Brennan that after a certain age time became more precious, the path downhill steeper.