“Good. They don’t have such a strong hold over me anymore, thanks to you.”
“That really is excellent news but we still need to discuss them.”
Ray swallowed hard. “We do?”
“Undoubtedly. You must fight hard against the devil if he is to be vanquished but you will reach peace, I promise you that.”
As Malachi continued to speak, tears rolled down Ray’s face, Malachi’s voice burrowing its way into his brain. Frantically he sprayed his angina medicine into his mouth but for once it had no effect. He collapsed onto the carpet as a crushing pain engulfed his chest, the phone falling from his hand.
The last thing he heard before his heart stopped beating was that voice talking about the devils inside him.
On arrival back in Glasgow, Brodie dropped Pete off at his station for the start of his shift before he and Cass headed back to the office. The boys had reported that no disciples had followed them, so it seemed moving offices had worked. Brodie brought them up to speed on what they’d discovered in Plockton then tasked them with seeing what they could dig up on the Samantha Cryer murder.
“What should we do?” Cass asked Brodie as the boys got to work.
“Let’s go and see the wee fud Brett Martins.” He looked to Elliott. “I’ve no’ had chance to track down a cult expert yet. Steven might need reprogramming or whatever they call it when we spring him. I want you to track one down.”
“Okay,” said Elliott slowly, wondering how the hell he was going to do that.
CHAPTER 13
Hollywood had taken over the south end of St Vincent’s Street in the centre of the city. Part of it had been cordoned off, the area patrolled by private security guards as well as a couple of police officers. Fortunately Brodie knew them both, so they allowed him and Cass to pass with a smile and a cheery word, moving aside one of the barriers for them.
The street looked like a war zone, burnt-out cars overturned, smoke emanating from one of them. Dead bodies littered the ground, riddled with bullets. In the midst of the chaos stood Brett Martins, handsome face bruised, a trickle of blood artfully staining one cheek, carefully placed so as not to spoil his good looks. His white shirt was strategically torn to reveal golden abdominal muscles and a toned shoulder. He was firing with a small handgun at a man in a balaclava crouched behind one of the cars, who was firing back at him with a machine gun. The actor with the machine gun released a cry and fell backwards after being struck by an imaginary bullet. It took Brodie all he had not to laugh out loud at how ridiculous and unrealistic it was. He’d been involved in fire fights and this was sod all like them, the scene created by people who had never been anywhere near genuine, life-threatening violence.
Brett approached the dying man, gaze cold as he stared down at him. He aimed the gun at his face. “This is for my wife and son,” he declared in an American accent, a single tear sliding down his cheek.
One of the dead bodies in the background jumped, the movement accompanied by the sound of a sneeze.
“Cut,” bellowed a large bearded man, leaping out of a chair with the title Director emblazoned across the back. Brodie hadn’t realised those chairs were actually used in real life.
“Get up you useless bastard,” the director yelled in a strong American accent.
The offending extra leapt to his feet, stammering an apology.
“Shut your mouth you idiot,” yelled the director. “You ruined that entire scene.”
“I’m sorry Mr Weinberger but it’s all this smoke, it’s tickling my nose.”
“Tickling your nose? You fucking pussy. Get the fuck off my set before I kick you up the ass and throw you off myself.”
“I…I’m sorry,” said the extra before hurrying off, head bowed.
Weinburger turned to Brett and addressed him much more politely. “I’m so sorry about that Brett. I’m afraid we’re gonna have to go again. Are you up to it?”
“Yes, of course but I need a break first,” he replied, still maintaining his American accent.
“Alright Brett, we need to reset the scene anyway. Half an hour do you?”
He nodded. “Fine.” He leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Weinburger nodded in understanding and whispered something back.
“Interesting,” Brodie told Cass. “Come on then hen, let’s speak to the walloper.”
Casually they made their way across the set towards the line of gleaming white trailers at the back. The place was so busy no one challenged them, confident in the abilities of their security to keep out any undesirables. They watched Brett head into the biggest and shiniest of all the trailers.
“You go in first hen,” Brodie told Cass. “Soften him up a bit.”
She nodded in understanding and made her way towards the trailer, giving Brett a minute to get inside. She knocked on the door, which was quickly flung open.
“That was fast,” he said, reverting back to his native Glaswegian. “Get in quick then.”
Cass stepped inside and he closed the door behind her and locked it.
He looked her up and down, assessing, lips twisting into a smile. “A bit older than I usually like them but nice. Very nice actually. Well don’t just stand there, get ‘em off.”
“Get what off?” she replied.
“What do you think I mean, your hair extensions? I mean your clothes.”
“I do not wear hair extensions.”
“All that hair’s natural?”
She nodded.
“Even better. Right, I’ll lie down and you can trail all that lovely hair up and down my naked body.”
“You’ve obviously got me confused with someone else.”
He frowned. “Stanley sent you, didn’t he?”
“No. I work for Brodie MacBride.”
Brett gasped. Right on cue the door was shouldered open to reveal the man himself.
“If you’re expecting some wee blond bird with massive lips,” said Brodie. “She got a better offer from a slug crawling along the ground.”
“Get out,” said Brett, tilting his head and throwing back his shoulders.
“Shut it ya wee fanny. Now listen, we need a wee chat.”
“About what?” he said, backing away from him.
“What do you think? Malachi.”
“You’re insane. He told me all about your crazy vendetta, accusing him of horrible things.”
“All of which are true.”
“They are not,” he retorted.
“Have you ever been to his so-called healing centres? I never knew a healing centre that needed armed guards.”
“They only need them thanks to idiots like you.”
“Does your great leader know about you shagging anything that moves in between takes?”
“Excuse me, I have very discerning tastes.”
“He said he likes them younger than me,” Cass told Brodie.
Brodie’s lip curled. “You dirty wee sod. Does your lord and master know you like indulging in a bit of fornication on a daily basis?”
“It’s only to help me relax. You’ve no idea how stressful my life is.”
“Stressful? Pretending to be someone you’re not is the easiest thing in the world, people do it all the time, so don’t give me that bollocks. Now, I want to know everything you know about Malachi.”
“You can piss right off. I’d rather die than betray him.”
Cass produced her phone from her pocket and held it up. “So you won’t mind me sending him this file of you telling me to trail my hair up and down your naked body then?”
Brett released a squeak of fear when Brodie growled with anger, grasped him by the front of his strategically torn shirt and slammed him up against the wall.
“You no gonnae fight me off big man?” said Brodie. “In one of your films you took on an entire Columbian drug cartel single-handed and topped the lot of them. Look at you in real life - weak and shaky. Pathetic.”
Brodie shoved him away with disgust and Brett fell limply sidew
ays onto the couch. His eyes widened when Brodie picked up a large, sinister-looking orangey-yellow specimen covered in small spiky lumps from the massive heaped bowl of tropical fruits sitting on the table. “What the hell is this?”
“No idea,” replied Cass.
“It…it’s a kiwano,” said Brett timidly. “A horned melon. My favourite.”
“Perfect,” smiled Brodie. “Right, if you don’t start talking I’ll shove this so far up your hole it’ll pop out of your mouth when you yawn.”
“No,” cried Brett, holding out his hands. “Please don’t. I’ll talk.”
Brodie’s smile was predatory as he loomed over Brett, brandishing the melon. “Good. Now, I want to know all of Malachi’s secrets.”
“Secrets?”
“Aye. Like how many wee kiddies he’s got locked up in the compound here in Glasgow?”
“He doesn’t keep them locked up. Their parents leave them in his care. They have nice rooms, a good education…”
“Right, it’s melon time,” said Brodie, grabbing his trouser belt.
“No wait, wait,” he cried. “I’ll tell you. He has about twenty five weans at the moment, ages ranging from three months to seventeen years but I’ve nothing to do with the children, I can’t stand brats.”
“Then how do you know how old they are? If you’ve touched any of them…”
“No, I would never do that,” he passionately declared. “I only know because he was talking with the woman in charge of the weans at the last meeting we had.”
“When was this meeting?”
“Four days ago.”
“Where?”
“At Malachi’s house here in the city.”
“And where is that?”
“Baron Court in Thorntonhall.”
Brodie chuckled. “Millionaire’s row again. Old Malachi’s no’ showing much of that Christian modesty, is he? What was discussed at this meeting?”
“Mundane stuff really - promotion, changing energy supplier, the number of new church members.”
“You always at mundane meetings?”
“If I’m in the city then yes. Malachi likes to know how I’ve got on in America spreading the word of the church.”
“How do you get on?” said Cass.
“Not good actually,” he sighed. “There’s a lot of competition in Hollywood from other alternative religions who are right on their doorstep. But Malachi’s really keen on spreading the word of his teachings across the world. If everyone had his higher knowledge we could save the planet.”
“You mean if everyone was a brainwashed bat no one would cause any trouble, making the world a better place?” said a sarcastic Brodie.
“I wouldn’t expect a philistine like you to understand.”
“Oh I do understand all too well wee man.”
“Wee man?” frowned Brett.
“How many members does the church have now?”
“Seven hundred and thirty three. You’re really outnumbered.”
“You’re gonnae need the entire population of China to get the best of me pal. Did Malachi kill his wife?”
“No he did not,” he retorted. “More lies to bring down our saviour. You’re a minion of darkness, it radiates off you.”
“Are you forgetting about the melon?” he said, waving it before him, making him recoil.
Brett decided to go silent.
“Tell me about Eve.”
“She’s Malachi’s second-in-command. She helped him make the church what it is.”
Brodie noted Brett’s lip curl slightly at the mention of her name. “You don’t seem to be a big fan of hers?”
“She’s an enlightened being of such advancement…”
“She’s a coo, isn’t she?”
Brett sighed and nodded. “Aye she is. She can come across as really nice and empathetic, she’s great at recruiting new members. But underneath she’s just so cold. Malachi adores her though…”
“And he likes her more than you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it though. Where’s she from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s her family?”
“No idea. We don’t discuss such mundane earthly matters in the church. All that matters is who a person is now, not their past.”
“Alright, nae need to get all pompous. What did Malachi do to Elaine Mickleson?”
“Who?”
“The woman who escaped your cult.”
“We’re not a cult,” he snapped.
“Aye ya are. Now shut up and listen. Elaine escaped by running out of the compound gate and was recaptured at her bungalow in Shawlands. Then she turned up in Edinburgh, all brainwashed with the creepy bat smile. What the hell did he do to her?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re banging on about. I’ve never heard Malachi or anyone else talk about some Elaine.”
“What about Mary Strachan? She was in Glasgow then got sent to Edinburgh for rebelling. Judging by what I saw outside this trailer she would be just your type - small, blond and pretty.”
“I’ve never heard of the woman. Is that it then only I have to be back on set soon? How did you get in here anyway?”
“Remember, this is my city. In Glasgow there isn’t anywhere I can’t go.”
“But it isn’t just Glasgow Malachi possesses, is it? It’s Dundee, Stirling and Edinburgh, our great capital. How could you possibly compete?”
“Doesn’t worry me. Your great saviour just has further to fall and fall he will, dragging you down with him. When the abuses that go on in the church do come out - and they will I promise you that - what do you think that will do to your reputation? No studio will touch you, your precious career pretending to be a hard man will be over. You’ll be reduced to signing autographs for cash at comic cons, if you’re lucky, while your good looks fade into nothing.”
The prospect made Brett swallow hard. Determination filled his eyes and he held himself straighter. “Earthly concerns such as money and reputation might concern you but I am above such things.”
“It’s easy saying that when you have millions in the bank and legions of adoring fans,” said Cass.
“Something you’ll never know.”
“Because I don’t want it but I bet that when Malachi does fall and you find yourself out in the cold, your face plastered all over the news, your name linked to child abuse, brainwashing and murder, you won’t feel so righteous.”
Brodie beamed at his goddess while Brett turned positively ashen. Maybe he should just propose right here right now? If this woman didn’t become his wife soon he would lose his mind. He held his card out to Brett. “You have a wee think about what Cass said. Call me when you’ve seen the light. The real light.”
Brett didn’t take his card, so Brodie let it flutter onto the floor beside him.
“Let’s get out of here hen,” said Brodie, taking her hand. “I’ve had enough of bawling wee babies for one day.” He held the melon aloft as they left. “But I’m taking this bad boy with me.”
Brett, who was used to being admired and adored and playing the tough guy, was left on the floor, feeling miserable and weak.
He jumped when there was a knock at the door, afraid Brodie had come back. “What do you want?” he shrieked girlishly.
The door opened and in walked the pretty, petite runner with the big tits who had been assigned to fetch him anything he needed. She was a huge fan of his and had been overwhelmed to be assigned with this grand task.
“I’ve brought you more horned melon Mr Martins, just like you asked me,” she replied with a huge smile, delighted to have been able to fulfil his request. It hadn’t been easy.
“Get them away from me,” he cried. “I don’t want to see one of those nasty lumpy things ever again.”
“But you asked me to fetch them for you Mr Martins,” replied the runner, her smile falling. “I ordered two dozen for you.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I do
n’t want them,” he shrieked. “Away and raffle yerself you silly cow.”
“Fine,” said the runner, on the verge of tears. “I’ll take them away then.”
She rushed out with her head bowed while Brett staggered to the couch and collapsed onto it, feeling wretched. This was not how he’d envisioned spending his break time.
Sarah Creegan sat in the recreation room of HMP Bronzefield in Middlesex, having been transferred out of Holloway when it was shut down. She stared at the television mounted high up on the wall, well out of reach of the inmates. She was paying no attention to the soap opera playing out on it, her mind ticking over the past.
Ever since her lover and partner-in-crime Seth Creegan had been found murdered, dumped in a Mancunian backstreet like rubbish after he’d escaped from prison, things had got even worse for her. Not that they’d been great to begin with, after all she was locked up in prison for life for being a serial killer. However, any hope she’d harboured of once again being on the outside had died with Seth. It had been bearable when he’d been alive, knowing their love still burned between them, despite being separated forever. Then he’d betrayed her, fallen for Jess O’Hare, the stupid simpering little author woman they’d hired to write a book about their crimes. When he’d escaped he’d begged Jess to runaway with him but she’d refused. She hadn’t loved him, she’d just used him to get the story and in the process destroyed the love he’d had for her, Sarah. Neither had she gained the satisfaction or the profit from her crimes being published for all to read in lurid detail as Jess had deleted the manuscript. The fucking cow had even married the prison officer who had been shot when Seth had escaped. The tabloids had quickly picked up on that story and splashed it across their shitty newspapers. After all, Jess had been a celebrity to begin with but her involvement with the infamous Creegans had only served to increase her fame. Even the sales of her books had skyrocketed. So while Sarah was left to rot in prison, the only person she loved dead, Jess fucking O’Hare was living in the lap of luxury with her hunky new husband, being lauded and rolling in cash, which made Sarah even more furious. If it hadn’t been for Jess her plot to have Brodie MacBride and his big-eyed bint killed would have worked. If only she still had access to her money she could have paid someone else to kill them all but the authorities had cut off access to her funds, leaving her stranded and helpless.
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