Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (28 page)

'You'll
piss yourself before the morning's out.'

'That's
it. Keep it up, keep it up. Now, listen, this is what's going to happen. We're
going outside, and we're getting into your car. I've got the keys from your
jacket. If you think about making a noise when we get outside, then I'll shoot
you in the back of the head. After that I'll drive to the
Scotsman
office
and give myself up to them; that way your man Skinner can't kill me. That way
it all comes out in Court.'

'What
if they're outside now, waiting?'

'Then
you'll be dead; me too probably. But we both know they're not, or we'd have
heard by now. Come on.'

With
surprising strength he hauled Martin to his feet, and pushed him towards the
door. In the hall, the detective stumbled.

Do
it now!
a voice said.
Go for him!

No;
no room, gun cocked. No chance.

He
picked himself up, and stepped outside, into Falcon Street.

'See?'
said Scotland. 'No bastard here.' He opened the front passenger door of the
white Mondeo, and jammed the gun into the middle of Martin's back, forcing him
forward, awkwardly, his hands still tied, numb, behind his back, and on to the seat.
Lightning fast, Scotland ran round to the driver's side and climbed in. Then,
holding the gun to his captive's head with his left hand, he reached over and
pulled the seat belt around him, fastening it, rendering him virtually
immobile.

He
started the car and grinned at the policeman wickedly. 'You know where we're
going, don't you?'

'I
can guess. I promise you one thing, bastard; I won't shit myself like you did.'

'You
will, you know. They all do.'

Scotland
put the car into gear and drove off, unhurried and steadily, out of Falcon
Street and on to Gilmerton Road, turning left, heading for the City by-pass. He
picked it up at Sheriffhall and headed west. Martin glanced at the car clock;
it was six-twenty. Even on a Friday morning, the traffic at that time was
minimal; no rescue vehicles, that was for sure.

They
turned off at the Lothianburn Junction, then took the fork which led to Biggar,
and eventually to the M74 and Carlisle. They would not be going that far,
though, Martin knew. Still driving steadily, Scotland took the first turning to
the right off the Biggar Road, a narrower country track, which climbed upwards
into the Pentland Hills. After two, maybe three miles, they came to a car park,
small but secluded, a clearing in a dark woodland area. They turned in and came
to a halt.

'We
walk from here,' said the man with the gun.

'Good,
you fucker,' Martin hissed. 'I want to see how big your balls really are.'

'I've
got to hand it to you, Mr Policeman.' Click; and the seat belt came undone. 'So
far you're talking a good game.' Scotland climbed out of the car then opened
the passenger door, hauling his prisoner out. 'Go on, that way. Take that path
through the woods. Remember though, I'm right behind and I'll shoot you in the
back if you do anything daft. I won't kill you, not yet, I'll just knock a
piece of you out, but it'll be fucking sore.'

Not
in the woods,
Martin found
himself praying.
Don't let him
do it in the woods. All wrong, not enough room.
But they walked on, until the forest came to an
end, giving way abruptly to open hillside, behind a fence and a sign which
read,

'Warning.
MoD Property. No admission. Live firing possible.'

'Live
firing fucking certain,' said Scotland, gleefully. 'Go on, through it.'

The
fence was three wire strands; no obstacle. Even bound, Martin slipped through,
easily, his executioner following. 'Up the hill.'They climbed carefully, for
the hill grass was suddenly thick in places, up towards a summit which turned
out to be merely a crest, hiding another steep trek. On they trudged for,
Martin judged, more than half an hour, mostly upwards, sometimes round the
hillside, but always with purpose. Scotland knew exactly where he was going.

At
last, they climbed another short slope and came to a rough, rock-strewn
clearing; looking at it, the policeman guessed that it might have been an old
crater, from a shell, or even a bomb.

'I've
been here many a time since,' Lawrence Scotland murmured. 'Thinking about Alec
Smith, wishing I could get him up here, crying on his knees. But I knew I never
could; guys like Smith, the fanatics, the crazies, are always on their guard.
And then you came to me.'

'What
if I hadn't been alone?' Martin asked. The thought had never occurred to him,
not once.

'There
wouldn't have been more than two of you. I'd have killed the one back there at
the Drum and brought the other one straight here.' The detective felt a chill
as he thought of Sammy Pye and those performance-review forms; they had saved a
life.

'Well,
big deal, arsehole. It's worked out for you. Now let's get on with it.'

'Hah.
You can't be that keen to die, Detective Chief Superintendent.' Mocking now;
it was beginning.
God, this
buggers hard to rattle. Got to, though; got to.
Martin aimed a clumsy kick at him.

'Watch
it, pal,' the man called out, stepping back lightly, out of range, 'or I'll
kneecap you. I saw that done once, you know, in Ireland. Fucking brutal it was;
often they lose a leg after it. No, you just stand there, like a good polisman
and it'll be less painful for you.'

A
slow, exultant, smile. 'You know what we're going to do, don't you?'

Anger,
Andy, Mr Angry. Anger is your weapon; your life depends on it.

'Of
course, I fucking know,' he roared, forcing a laugh, which for an instant
seemed to take the man by surprise. 'I've always wanted to play this game. Come
on, show me some stuff.'

Scotland
shook his head, and took a pace back.

Come
closer you bastard. Need you closer.

He
was much faster than Martin had expected, as he broke the breech of the pistol,
emptied six bullets into his hand from their chambers, replaced just one,
snapped the breech shut and spun the magazine.

Fuck.
Too quick, not a chance to move.

Panic
now as the gun came up: cold, clammy, terror. Pressure on bladder.
Don't let go whatever you do. Keep your eyes open,
look down the barrel. Take the bullet in the forehead if you have to.
Inching closer, staring past the gun into
Scotland's icy eyes, heart pounding, hammering, faces in the way.
Dad, Mum, David, Alex, Bob, Karen, Sarah, Rhian,
Jazz, Karen .
..
Heart bursting, head
swimming, he's squeezing the trigger. . .

Nothing;
only a click, an incredibly loud, almost deafening click, then a rushing in his
ears. Sudden numbness, sudden explosion of sweat, sudden relief.
Brains are still there, but they're not working.
What to do? Stay Angry. Unsettle the bastard, if you can.

'So!'
A shout; a Mr Angry shout. 'Disappointed, you rat-fucker?'

'Oh
no. I'd only have been disappointed if you'd begged me, or if the gun had gone
off. You know something? They say you can see the soul leave the body. I never
have; but maybe you have to have a soul yourself before you can.'

Gun
still steady, held on me. Now? Knew I should .
..
sweet Jesus I've got to, but my Goddamn bloody legs are
shaking. When I need them most they won't work.

'Round
two.' Scotland, cat quick again, loading another bullet, spinning the chamber.

Missed
it, fuck it. Missed the moment. Oh, Mother of Christ, I'm really dead now. No,
six chambers, two bullets; two to one my favour. Take the bet, Andy, Go for him
and he could fire four times before you get there. Dead for sure. Take the bet.
^After that
...
next try he's yours.'

Harder
to hold it together this time.
No
more humour in his eyes; supposed to die or crap myself. Won't do either. Kill
that rat-fucker. Kill, Kill!
Heart
still pounding, faces again; no, just one face.
Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen. Oh fuck, Karen, he's
pulling the trigger
..
.

Karen
still there, me still there, no more chat now, third bullet. Dead for sure.
Yell! Rush. Yes, the fucker's startled, dropped it, dropped the bullet. Hit him
now, shoulder first in the chest, remember the time you flattened John Jeffrey
...
reverse of the usual. Knock this
rat-fucker down; yes! Drive shoulder in again, crush him into the ground. In
with the head, yes, in the face, hurt him, break whatever you can! Lie on his
arm, pin that hand, don't let him close the breech on those two rounds. Christ,
he s almost
...
Teeth, anything, yes,
bite, go for trigger finger. Yes, got it now; bite, harder than that
...
Taste blood; bite harder.
..
bite harder
...
shake like a terrier. . . loose in my mouth. Who
's
screaming? Him. Great. You taste lousy,
rat-fucker, your finger tastes lousy! Spit. Roll over on him, on your back;
grab for gun with your hands
...
Grab
...
Got it
...
no. Yes, got it. Breech is closed. Stand up, knee in his
chest again on the way
...
Turn
around, try to shoot the fucker? No, could shoot yourself, just empty the gun,
then deal with him. Pull trigger empty chamber, pull trigger empty chamber. On
his feet now, punching me with his good hand and the other, the one with the
bloody stump. Nothing stuff. Girlie hits. Pull trigger, bang round gone, pull
trigger empty chamber, pull trigger bang other round gone. Christ he
's
got a rock now, big one, holding it up
to brain me, charge again, drive harder faster this time head up kill the
fucker kill the fucker head under chin drive up teeth into throat bite hard
kill bite harder kill bite hardest kill kill kill kill
...
Got to see, Karen tell Karen Karen Karen
...
bite still, tear, rip, more blood, lots
more blood, listen rat-fucker for your last pathetic gurgling gasp
...

39

'How
certain are you that this Howard Shearer's our man, sir?' Skinner smiled
inwardly as he looked at the bleary-eyed Pringle. Eight a.m. Friday mornings in
the office were not of his choosing, not any more, not at his age, not now that
he was a Right Worshipful Panjandrum or whatever the hell he was in his Lodge.
He thought for a moment of pointing out that there could be no degrees of
certainty, but he let it pass;
Nobody
loves a smart-arse,
he
reminded himself.

'I'm
not saying he is, Dan; I'm still a way short of that. But everyone who knows
him
...
and there were nine of us
last night, ten counting Sarah
...
agrees that the e-fit is a damn good likeness. There's an appendectomy scar
too, and on top of that he was missing from action last night. We've always
joked that the Diddler would skip his own funeral to make the game.

'I've
checked his house, without breaking in, and I know that no-one's been there
since Sunday at the latest. Still it's not conclusive; there could be an
explanation. He's a high-flyer in fund management; he makes occasional trips to
the Far East. He could be there, or he could be at a conference.

'I
hope to God he is, for his sake and for his wife's.'

Pringle
grunted. 'There's something else, for her sake too, sir. The man in the water
had someone else's pubic hair
trapped
under the bell-end of his knob.'

'I
know
...
and I just hope we don't
wind up having to ask Edith for a sample for comparison.' He paused. 'I've read
Sarah's report till I know it off by heart. The part of it which deals with how
he was tied up
...
What did you make
of that?'

The
Superintendent looked at the DCC suspiciously, as if he was afraid he had been
asked a trick question. 'It said that there were marks on the wrists and
ankles, showing that he had been securely tied up.' He paused. 'And it noted
that the marks went all the way round, indicating that the wrists and ankles may
not have been bound together, although not ruling out the possibility that
there might have been a final layer of rope or cord over the top.