17th December, 1515 hours – Edinburgh City Police Station
Mark was shattered. He’d literally just walked in the door from the murder at the vaults and already DI McPhee was jumping down his throat, demanding to know why he hadn’t been able to stop it with the information from the nice psychic lady – a complete turnaround from his attitude from earlier that morning.
When he’d seen the victim’s name on his debit card, Mark’s heart had all but stopped. For a full minute he wished and hoped he’d read the name wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on whether that was because deep down, he didn’t want to believe in psychics, or because if the name was right he’d have to see Toni again. He’d never have admitted it to Annie but when Toni had rang him, he’d been over the moon to see her name on his phone screen, flashing and goading him into answering. It had sent a shiver down his spine when he’d heard her husky voice, and then his blood had run cold when she’d given him the name.
He hadn’t wanted her to be right – he really hadn’t. The knowledge brought forward too many questions.
And now the DI was screaming that he should’ve believed the psychic when he himself had called them crazies. It beggared belief.
Mark drew his fingers through the unruly mop of brown wavy hair on his head – it was interspersed with grey flecks and had needed cutting months ago, but it was something he’d just never got around to. His face had more than a day’s growth of stubble on it – he shaved some mornings, but there were also times he couldn’t be bothered. It gave him a rugged look, something he was teased about by Annie all the time. He had the same grey eyes that all the males in his family had – dark and stormy when he was angry, and bluey-grey when he wasn’t. His dad’s eyes. He exhaled deeply – trying to let his worries float away on his breath like the mindfulness counsellor he’d seen that autumn had taught him to do.
He stopped the memories invading before they arrived – left them hovering on the periphery. They weren’t allowed out – end of. It left him too vulnerable. Not even Annie knew everything. And that said a lot seeing as how they had the ‘twinection’ that she went on about all the time. The only person he’d ever told was his counsellor. The only person he’d ever tell if he had his way. No one needed to know he’d sneaked into the mortuary to say goodbye to his dad – no one needed to know what he’d seen. He shuddered, as the memories threatened to free themselves from the box he kept them tightly locked inside of.
Distracting himself, he opened the major incident booklet in front of him and quickly checked through the details, making sure it was okay to be uploaded to the system. One of the newer detectives had been dispatched to do the death inform message to Aaron’s parents. Mark tended to pass that on where he could. None of them enjoyed telling the families that their loved ones weren’t coming home. But Mark had always found it particularly difficult. He still remembered the knock at the door when his dad had been killed, the look on the cops’ faces as they’d told his mam and she’d collapsed into Alex’s arms, sobbing loudly. Alex had been eighteen at the time – and Mark had been fourteen. Old enough to remember the despair, to remember trying to comfort his mam as she fell apart in the days after his dad’s death. He hated being the bearer of that kind of news – to anyone.
He finished putting the information on the case onto the system and let the day’s events play over in his mind.
17th December, 1600 hours – Toni’s flat, Harrison Gardens
Toni had practically worn a dent in the hardwood floor of her flat – when she was upset she paced. A lot.
The phone call from Mark had thrown her – she knew her vision was accurate, but usually the cops found a way to ignore that kind of information and portray the cases as solved with no help from anyone else. The fact that Mark had acknowledged to her that her visions were real meant more than it would normally do. Purely because they had history.
He’d told her on the phone that he needed to call round and take a statement – it wasn’t the first time she’d ever made a statement to the police but it was scary, having her gift out there in the open for anyone who cared to have a read take a look. Not to mention the prospect of court.
Her blood ran cold in her veins – the last and only previous time she’d been at court, the defence had made her look like an absolute con woman – their questions and comments would have turned the most ardent believer in psychics into a non-believer. It had affected her so much that she hadn’t had visions for months afterwards. Almost believing herself that her gift was a fallacy. Can I do it again? Go through all that not to be believed anyway?
Her head shook of its own accord. It had taken Mark finding a body with the name on she’d given to believe her. If in fact he did: he could think she was a suspect. Her mind kept on playing scenarios out to her and by the time a loud knock rang out from the door, she was shaking like a leaf.
‘Hey,’ said Mark, entering her living room at her silent hand motion. She noticed a shadow lurking behind the stairwell door on the landing, but ignored it, turning to face Mark.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, obviously clocking the look of despair on her face. A look she tried hard to rectify now.
‘Nothing, I’m… I guess I’m a little nervous. Last time I gave a statement over a vision, it – well, let’s just say it didn’t end great.’
‘The statement is just to say what you told me. It may or may not be used by CPS at court – but, in my opinion, it’s doubtful. If you’d identified the killer perhaps… but this is basically a testimonial stating what you saw. You can’t identify the killer, can you?’ Mark’s voice sounded a little hopeful even as he looked at her already knowing the answer.
‘Sorry, no. All I can see now is Aaron’s face. He was so young. Why would someone want to do this to him?’
‘Cos there’s some sickos in the world. You’ll probably never understand why a person does something like this any more than I do. There’s been loads of studies on the psychology behind killers, but in my experience it basically comes down to one of three things. Money, desire or revenge.’
‘Do you think you’ll catch the killer? I just keep thinking of his family – his mother specifically. She must have been worried sick when he didn’t come home. It’s just awful.’ Tears pricked her eyes unexpectedly. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to cry. I just keep remembering how scared he was – did you know he wet himself? I felt it when I dug deeper. He was so terrified. It’s just not right.’
‘We’ll be doing everything we can to catch the person responsible. Promise.’
Mark put his hand on her arm, giving her comfort. When she looked closely, his skin was pale and his hand shook a little on her arm. She wasn’t the only one who was suffering. Though if she knew anything about Mark McKay, it was that he would suffer alone. Even as a teenager, if something happened that affected him, he took himself off alone to deal with it. She knew offering him any comfort would be a waste of time, so she took solace in his touch, just for a moment.
Her arm felt cold when he removed his hand and she found herself missing it being there. Which was ridiculous seeing as how they’d not seen each other in forever and the touch had been that of comfort and nothing more.
Get a grip – make a coffee and crack on with the statement.
‘Coffee?’ she said, moving towards the kitchen.
‘Please. White with two.’
She was stupidly pleased when he made no attempt to follow her, instead heading into the living room and sitting himself down on the three-seater sofa. He was comfortable around her – that at least was something.
Chapter 6
17th December, 2150 hours – Canaan Lane, Morningside, Edinburgh
Mark bit down on the lukewarm pizza from the box beside him. He really needed to improve his diet – eating takeaways most nights was starting to affect his figure. He knew he’d piled a few pounds on over the last few months – a fact his mother was proud to see. She’d been saying he was skinny for years – not now
though. On the occasions he made it home, she piled his plate with extra veggies and squeezed the beginnings of the love handles at his sides. He supposed he was still trim – regular trips to the gym helped with that. But it didn’t mean he was healthy. He was just as at risk of health conditions as the next guy when it came down to it and his diet had been shocking of late.
He would address the weight gain – well before his next physical in a few months. But takeaways were the easy option when he was watching out for Wright. He’d been there tonight for about half an hour – the lights were on in Wright’s flat but there had been no curtain twitches, no acknowledgement that Wright was even inside the flat. But Mark couldn’t just leave. He knew he’d stay until the wee hours – and Wright knew that nine times out of ten, Mark would be outside. It was like a game – though a game with high stakes if Wright managed to get his hands on yet another young lad.
That was why Mark couldn’t just do what Detective Inspector McPhee wanted and leave well enough alone. Because if he did and another lad turned up dead, it would be on him. He knew with certainty that Wright had killed before – maybe more than the once he knew about. He was certain of it, even though the courts had kicked the case out. Maybe it was how he acted afterwards, or his general manner towards Mark throughout the investigation. Whatever the reason, Mark knew one day he’d arrest Wright again, and this time the charges would stick.
His mind flew to Aaron from the vaults – he was just the type for Wright to want to sink his perfectly formed teeth into – about the right age and build, even the blond hair that he knew was Wright’s preference. Mark was trying his best not to believe that Wright was involved – he didn’t want to get to the point where he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, but his gut was telling him that Wright was somehow involved even as he tried not to believe.
Mark took a sip from the water bottle in the central console of the car. Just a sip – last thing he needed was to have to leave to take a piss. He settled back into the driver’s seat, wriggling his shoulders against the aches that sitting so long in one position caused, and resumed staring at the flat.
17th December, 2155 hours – Canaan Lane
He stood behind the van down the road and peeked round at the police officer in the car – out in the open but firmly believing he hadn’t been spotted. The cop’s eyes kept darting up to the flat he was watching, as though something would suddenly happen and all would become clear.
He frowned – the cop should give credit where it was due. The curtains in the flat were closed – it wasn’t as if the officer had X-ray vision. Just willing something to happen didn’t mean it would. He would make sure of it.
He pulled his phone out and sent a quick text to his friend. Cop’s outside. I can’t go in. Heading to the bunkhouse.
His phone showed the text had been received and within seconds the reply came through.
Noted. Good plan.
He wanted the cop to know he’d been seen, though – maybe if he knew he’d stop this stupid charade and piss off. He pulled his hood down over his face and adjusted the scarf round his neck so that the only thing visible was his eyes.
He wore thick gloves on his hands, a heavy dark jacket that made him look bigger than he was, and stocky black boots. I wouldn’t like to meet me in a dark alley.
The thought made him smile.
He pulled the hammer from his inside pocket – the cop wouldn’t even know what hit him.
Within seconds he had edged up the driver’s side of the car until he was level with the window – the cop inside hadn’t even noticed him there yet, his eyes fixed on the mid-height flat in the block directly opposite.
He swung the hammer round hard, shattering the window with a loud crack and followed the movement through with his arm, feeling the hard, round edge of the hammer connect with flesh, albeit in a fleeting glance.
The cop grunted loudly, still not really knowing what had happened.
Leaning into the car, he grabbed the cop by the back of the neck and smashed his face into the steering block. Feeling the man beneath his hand relax, he knew he’d knocked him unconscious. He replaced the hammer in his inside pocket, then reached into the car and grabbed the cop’s wallet from his pocket. For a second, he stared at the prone figure inside the car. It would be so easy to end him right then. He had a knife lodged in the holster under his trouser leg. A quick flick and the cop would be dead. But that was too easy today. And the last thing he needed was the whole of the Edinburgh police force on the look-out for a cop-killer.
Turning, he walked away, feeling his lungs protest as he practically jogged several streets over. Opening the wallet, he pulled out the cash and pocketed it – fifty quid – wouldn’t last long but it would get him a few pints in the pub which he deserved after all his hard work.
He paused when he saw the police warrant card in the photo section of the wallet. Drawing it out with his finger and thumb, he glanced at the photo of Mark McKay. The photo depicted Mark smiling and he grinned as he stood underneath the street light. Mark McKay wouldn’t be smiling now. He binned the wallet, pocketing the warrant card for good measure. One never knew when such a thing would come in handy.
Damn that felt good. Maybe should have hit him harder, but I’m pretty sure his nose crunched as it hit the steering wheel.
Seeing a bus approach, he stuck his arm out, pulled his scarf back down to his neck, and hopped on the bus with a wide smile at the driver.
17th December, 2205 hours – Canaan Lane
Mark groaned as he dragged himself from the darkness that threatened to swallow him back down. His jeans felt damp on top of his thighs, and his face exploded in pain as he lifted his head off the middle of the steering wheel.
What the hell…
His fingers gingerly felt around his nose which seemed to be where the majority of his pain was coming from. They came away wet, and even in the darkness inside the car, he could see the smear of dark red blood on them.
Clawing at his memory, he tried to recall exactly what had happened. He knew he was outside Wright’s flat – he’d been eating pizza. Something had smashed and then… nothing. Tears streamed from his eyes – unwanted tears and he swiped at them roughly. He wasn’t crying – it was his eyes’ response to the pain in his nose.
Mark swiped his sleeve across his mouth and base of his nose, catching the cartilage inside. The crunch echoed round his head and he groaned again, a spear of pain spreading up his nose into what felt like his brain. Fresh, warm metallic liquid dripped down the back of his throat and he gagged, almost throwing up in his lap. He swallowed hard and used his hand to wipe the tears off his cheeks.
Fumbling with the handle, he practically fell from the car, looking up and down the street. It was silent – not a soul to be seen. Mark bent at the waist and glanced in the wing mirror in front of him.
Gasping, he saw he looked like something from a horror movie. A deep cut spread across the bridge of his nose, bruising was already starting to come out and spread around both eyes. Gingerly touching the inside of his top lip with his tongue, he tasted hot blood and realised his teeth had sunk into his lip also. There was a bruise forming on the side of his face. He knew the chance of him finding who was responsible was slim, and as his vision blurred with another wave of dizziness, he realised he needed medical attention.
Knowing he shouldn’t really be driving but promising himself he’d be extra cautious, he got back into the car and drove to the Edinburgh Royal Hospital. It didn’t take him long to get there despite driving slowly and pulling over a few times when the dizziness threatened to take over again. He abandoned the car in the parking zone, before staggering inside.
The receptionist looked bored as she sat behind her computer, not even glancing up as she said, ‘Name and date of birth, please.’
His voice sounded muffled as he answered. ‘Mark McKay, 27th December 1979.’
‘Home address?’
Mark steadied himself by leaning
both hands onto the reception desk – he opened his mouth to answer but the room pitched. His pizza tea made its way back up to his throat and he turned his head, throwing up on the floor. Still dizzy, he tried to keep hold of the receptionist’s desk but the blood on his hands made it slippy. He lost his balance and crashed to the floor with a groan.
Activity burst to life around him – he felt himself moved onto a stretcher and wheeled through to the examination room – the lights above his head moving at speed.
‘Mark, can you hear me? You’re going to be okay.’ The nurse’s voice was soft and controlled. Unlike her fingers which suddenly probed his sore nose making him groan loudly and made tears prick at his eyes again. ‘Nasty broken nose you have here. Can you tell me what happened?’
‘Attacked,’ mumbled Mark, moving his head away from her hands so she couldn’t probe further.
‘Okay. I’m going to go and get some stuff to clean you up with – I’ll be back in a minute. The doctor won’t be long either.’
Mark grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave the room. ‘Painkillers, please. Hurts.’
‘No problem. Give me a few minutes. Just relax, okay?’
He nodded again. The pillow felt nice underneath his head, and his eyes fluttered closed.
17th December, 2350 hours – Toni’s flat, Harrison Gardens
Toni had been in bed for what seemed like hours but sleep just wouldn’t come. She pulled her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, deciding a cup of cocoa and something trashy on the TV might help her drop off.
Standing though, she pitched forward, face-planting on the carpet. It was enough force to knock her breathless, and for a minute she lay there. She knew she was on her carpet, but suddenly the texture felt fuzzy and her brain said she was on some kind of cold plastic floor. She could smell antiseptic and she winced as sharp pain spread across her face.
From the Dark Page 5
