Murder Mile (8 page)

‘That’s not what we discussed …’ burst Gallagher.

The Chief Super flagged him down, ‘Rob, I’d like you to take Jim onto your team, he’ll report to you …’ He looked at Gallagher, ‘For the time being.’

Brennan’s head buzzed, he felt like an angry wasp had got in there. He looked at Gallagher and then back to the Chief Super. He didn’t know which one to despise the most. He knew Gallagher had cooked this up, it was trophy hunting, he was after the case because it was the biggest one going. Benny, though, he was just playing the only game he knew: divide and rule.

Brennan held himself in check, kept his tone low and flat. ‘And if I object, sir?’

‘Object all you like, Rob,’ said the Chief Super as he reached for the door handle, ‘it won’t make a blind bit of difference.’

Chapter 10

NEIL HENDERSON AWOKE
with a blowtorch burning behind his eyes. His head throbbed, soundly and persistently. His mouth felt like there was something in there, something alien, a sponge perhaps or blotting paper – something that absorbed all the moisture. He had forgotten how hard it was to return to old habits. Even alcohol; your resistance was never the same after a short spell away. It took time and repeated bouts of abuse to build up tolerance; he wondered how long it would take him.

Henderson rose on the mattress, Ange was still sleeping at his side; she had passed out long before him. He remembered her hysterics, the fit of near panic, and the terror on her face as she shrieked out. What the hell was wrong with her? He had seen all kinds of bad trips, he’d seen withdrawals where punters thought their demons had taken them over – it was all inside their heads. Henderson knew Ange was losing it; Christ, she had just about lost it before he went away, so where did that put her now? He turned, eyed her bare back where she lay on the mattress, her shoulders shivering.

‘You’ve got some problems girl.’

He lifted the covers, exposed her naked frame. ‘Still got a fine arse on you, though.’

Of course she had, he thought, the girl was only twenty. It would
take
a fair few years yet – even at her rate of intake – to totally wreck herself. He ran his hand over her backside, down the edge of her thigh. ‘Few bawbees to be made off that yet!’

Henderson pulled back the cover, started to shake Angela by the shoulder. She turned over and fumbled her way to his side of the bed; as she grabbed his groin, lowered her head, the move seemed altogether mechanical, too practised.

‘Hey, hey … What the fuck you up to?’ said Henderson.

Angela carried on, seemed barely aware of his presence.

‘I’m talking to you.’ Henderson grabbed her hair, twisted a handful of it; it took some tightening of the knot to alert Angela, wake her from her daze.

‘Ahh …’

‘Sort yourself out, eh,’ said Henderson. ‘Sit up, I want to talk to you.’

Angela reached hands to her head, her eyes widened. Immediately she seemed to have wakened, fell into a coughing fit.

Henderson flared his nostrils. ‘Look at the fucking kip of you, who’s going to pay for a skank, eh?’

Angela rubbed her head, ‘What was that for?’

‘To wake you up … Seen the time?’

Angela looked towards the window; it was dark outside. Time she should be out on the Links, scoring punters. Henderson tweaked the tip of her nose, ‘You hearing me?’

‘Aye, I hear you.’ She pushed his hand away, withdrew to the far side of the mattress. ‘You got any fags?’

‘Fags is it?’ Henderson put one foot out of the bed, tried to hook a toe under his jeans, dragged them over. He took a packet of Club Kingsize out of his pocket, sparked up, then chucked the packet at Angela. ‘This better not be the start of you scrounging off me, you know I can’t be doing with that kind of patter … There’s no free rides in this world, Ange.’

She took out a cigarette, put it between her lips and lit it. ‘I’ll get out there in a minute, Hendy … Just have a quick fag, eh.’

Henderson got off the mattress, pulled his jeans on; the belt
buckle
rattled as he fastened the buttons. When he was fully dressed he went round to Angela’s side of the room and crouched down.

‘See that way you went off there, when I put the telly on …’ he watched her press the cigarette into her mouth, inhale deep. ‘What was that all about?’

She shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

Henderson grabbed her face in his hand, ‘I’m not playing fucking games with you, Ange … I want to know.’ She yanked her face away. He saw the imprints of his fingers in the white flesh of her jaw line. He wagged a fist at her. ‘I mean it, if I’m going to be looking out for you, I need to know that you’re fit for it and not going to be getting fucking locked up … Not worth my time, is it?’

Angela looked away, pinched her lips. Her eyes flickered as she raised them towards the ceiling. Her reply came hard and flat, ‘I’m fine.’

Henderson knew she was keeping something from him; experience had taught him that when whores had secrets there was a good reason for it. Someone else was stamping their mark on them; they had a few quid stashed away; or a secret punter that was paying big. He didn’t know what it was that Angela had to keep quiet about but he knew he needed to find out. He grabbed her by the throat, pinned her to the wall.

‘Now you better fucking loosen that gob of yours, or I might be forced to close it once and for fucking all … You get me?’

Angela whimpered, her eyes reddened – intricate little red lines like fine cracks in pottery appeared over the whites. ‘It’s nothing … nothing.’

Henderson gripped her throat tighter, forced his thumb deep into the crevice of her neck; Angela started to splutter, gasp for breath. Her face darkened as he brought the cigarette up to her eye.

‘How many fucking punters do you think you’d score out on the Links with one eye, eh?’ He moved the glowing amber tip of the cigarette to within an inch of Angela’s eye, pointed it like a dart. ‘I’ll fucking do it … I will.’

‘OK. OK. Let me go.’

‘And you’ll tell me?’

‘Yes. I will. I promise.’

Henderson released his grip on her neck; Angela fell forward and landed face down on the mattress. She shot hands up to her throat as she coughed and gasped for breath. She was still spluttering as Henderson loomed over her and inhaled deeply on the cigarette he had threatened to blind her with.

‘I’m waiting,’ he said.

She coughed again, some long trails of spit escaped her mouth.

‘I’ve not got all fucking night!’

Angela forced herself up onto her knees, her thin fingers traced the line of her throat as she tried to massage some of the pain away. She looked ready to fold again, pass out. Henderson reached over and yanked her to her feet; he was surprised by how light she was.

Angela shrieked again, as she stood, shivering and naked before him.

‘Right, talk …’ he said.

She wiped a tear from her cheek, ‘I-I can’t …’

Henderson lit up, he drew back a fist.

‘OK. OK,’ yelled Angela.

‘I’m losing the fucking rag with you, girl …’

She gripped her waist in her arms, spoke softly. ‘Can I show you something?’

Henderson’s face shrivelled into confusion. ‘Show me what?’

‘It’s just, I’ve never told anyone before.’

‘Told anyone what?’

Rain started to patter on the window; Angela looked away, slowly got down from the mattress and walked towards the other side of the room. By the doorway sat a small coffee table with a drawer in the top; she opened up and removed a
Yellow Pages
. Underneath the directory sat a little mauve-coloured diary. ‘I wrote it in here.’

‘Wrote what?’ said Henderson.

She held up the diary, she seemed to have trouble even looking
at
it. Some more tears rolled over her cheekbones. ‘What happened … out there.’

Henderson stubbed his cigarette in the smoked-glass ashtray by the mattress, walked towards Angela. He snatched the diary out of her hand. ‘This is like a fucking notebook.’

Angela watched him turning over the pages. ‘It’s a journal … I used to keep it, before I met you.’

Henderson held it up, ‘Well, what the fuck’s in it?’

Angela looked towards the window, it was dark out and the rain was getting heavier. ‘I need to go. We’ve no money.’

‘What about this?’

‘You asked what it was about … It’s in there.’

‘So I have to fucking read this?’

Angela nodded, moved away. She pulled on her black mini-dress and stuck her bare feet into her heels. As she put on her coat she saw Henderson flicking through the diary.

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘Tell anyone what?’

‘What’s in there.’

He looked at her, smiled. ‘I haven’t read it yet … so I guess that all depends, doesn’t it?’

Chapter 11

NEIL HENDERSON WATCHED
Angela teeter towards the front door of the cold-water flat in Leith. He didn’t know what to make of her. The tart had gone downhill, rapidly, since he went inside. They were all the same, none of them knew how to look after themselves. She hadn’t even put on a bit of lipstick: what kind of punter was she going to score without even a bit of lipstick? Some of them, he thought, just weren’t worth the bother.

The door slammed as Angela left; he heard her heels clacking as she descended the steps.

Henderson drummed fingers on the little mauve-coloured diary she had given him. The girl was next to worthless; how was a man supposed to earn a crust off a wreck like that? He knew she was going to be more trouble. All that time and effort he’d put in on her had been wasted.

When he had met Angela she was in a bad enough way; crying her eyes out in the street after being stiffed out of her last tenner by some bitch off the Links. They were like a pack of animals those girls; any new meat on display and they fired into it, ripped it to shreds.

Henderson grimaced, ‘Fucking pack of slags.’

He’d shown them though; there had been three of them, old boots who should have known better. A few smacks in the face, some
bust
noses and black eyes were enough to teach them. A couple of nights in dock till the bruises subsided and a few quid out their takings and they didn’t think about messing with Angela again.

‘Easy money,’ said Henderson. He grinned to himself.

There had been times when it really was easy money, he’d had three of them on the go, all bringing in a pretty penny. Then one of them shot herself an overdose and that was her. The other got stiffed by a guy who worked at the bookies – a week of hand jobs went unpaid until Henderson made a visit, followed him home and leathered him in the street. How was he to know there was filth living in the same row? She’d been a good earner though, Casy, until she fucked off when he went inside.

‘Never had a fucking day’s luck,’ said Henderson. ‘Not a fucking day of it.’

He was turning the diary over in his hand when he decided to take a look inside, see what all the fuss was about.

‘Stupid bloody bitch,’ he said as he opened the slim volume.

On page one was written: Angela Mickle, Porty Acad.

‘Jesus, she was still a schoolie.’

He read on. There was a lot of puerile nonsense about boys in her class, pressure from her parents to study for exams and falling out with friends.

‘Bloody daft lassie,’ said Henderson as he skimmed the first few entries.

He skipped back and forwards, looking for the part that Angela had made such a fuss about but couldn’t find anything. It was all about school and stealing money out her dad’s jacket to buy cigarettes. It was inane. Nothing to cause the reaction of the night before.

Henderson was beginning to think he’d been had. It seemed the diary covered a period of about six months. After a month or so, she’d joined the gymnastics team, had a new coach who had said she had promise. There were a lot of entries about the gymnastics classes, the training and the after-school club. It bored Henderson.

He got up and took a cigarette from his packet of Club, sparked up.

What was she going on about with this diary?

Was she taking the piss?

He thought Angela had pulled a fast one; that she had used the diary to shut him up, to get away from him. She was probably at the bus station now.

‘The fucking bitch!’

He returned to the small book, scanned it faster, looking, searching for whatever it was that might have happened to her. His attention was roused now, because if there wasn’t something there – something worth his while wading through all this schoolie nonsense – then he’d been had.

Near the end of the diary Henderson noticed the handwriting had changed. It stopped being florid, it lost the big looping curls and smiley-faces above the ‘i’s. It became a scratch, sloped hard to the left and failed to keep a straight line, even though the diary had lined pages.

The entries changed too.

He read:

It was gymnastics class again today. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, the Creep has started to act very strange since the night he tried to kiss me. I told him I didn’t want to do it, but he’s said that if I don’t then I won’t be on the team any more and he’ll tell everyone that I am a slut
.

Henderson’s eyes roved over the page, tried to find another mention of the Creep.

He told me that I was the best gymnast he had ever coached and it would be a shame to throw it all away just because I was being immature. I’m not immature, I just don’t want to let him touch me. He said I wouldn’t know what I was missing and that all the other girls in the squad would think they were lucky to be in my position
.

Henderson found himself tensing up as he read the diary entries. He crossed his legs, watched his ankle sit at a jagged angle to the rest of his body.

‘The dirty old fucker,’ he said.

Who was this Creep? he wondered. He’d heard about pervs, they called them beasts inside. They were scum, the lowest of the low. Beneath contempt. Hated. This guy was a teacher as well, a square peg … the thought mangled Henderson’s mind.

He raised the book higher, swapped hands and massaged his left wrist for a little while. He couldn’t quite take in what he was reading, but he was sure it was a juicy story. He wanted to see if she did do the dirty old bastard.