Murder Mile drb-2

by Tony Black

  Mr Sloan reached out to his wife; his hand was quickly pushed away. ‘We’re already painted as martyrs in the paper… Nothing’s going to bring our Lindsey back. Nothing!’ She turned, paced towards the open door. Mr Sloan and Brennan watched in silence as she left the room. All the air seemed to have been sucked out in her wake, replaced by a tense electricity.

  ‘She’s taking it hard,’ said Mr Sloan.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘She wanted to draw a line under it all.’ He nodded towards the newspaper where it sat next to Brennan on the side table. ‘She wanted to talk about Lindsey but they twisted it round, made us sound, I don’t know, needy…’ He got to his feet, walked to the door and looked towards the staircase as if he expected to see his wife standing there. He turned back to the room, faced Brennan. ‘It just wasn’t supposed to be about us,’ he said. ‘It’s about Lindsey. And we can’t get her back now, Inspector… She’s gone for good… we know that.’

  Mr Sloan followed his wife out the door, said, ‘I have to go to her.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brennan stood alone.

  Chapter 34

  The wheatsheaf started filling up, but hadn’t quite reached the point where it could be described as busy. A disconsolate gathering of old men sat at the bar with half-pint tumblers in their hands, nodding towards the flickering portable television that showed a snooker match. The picture was grainy, almost a snowstorm; Henderson watched for a moment, saw a red ball sink in the middle pocket, then turned to the barman. ‘Need to give the aerial a shoogle, I think.’ The man looked at him with hooded eyes, rubbed at his ribcage and cleared all expression from his face; he seemed to be waiting for Henderson to speak again.

  ‘Pint, mate,’ he said, his voice sounded higher now, more lyrical.

  The barman nodded, took up a glass from beneath the counter and started to look at the pumps. Henderson tilted his head towards the one marked McEwans, smiled. ‘I’m, eh…’ he leaned forward, rested his elbows on the scratched and scarred bar top, ‘on the lookout for one of your regulars.’

  The barman continued pouring until the pint glass was filled; he clipped the pump up, put it in line with the counter top and placed the full pint of McEwans on the bar in front of Henderson; some white froth escaped the brim and slid down the side of the glass, settled on the bar surface. The barman studied Henderson; each of his eyes contained a solitary pinpoint of light — he held his expression still for a moment and then briskly waved a dismissive hand, ‘I pour pints, that’s all.’

  Henderson sniffed, cached away his emotions. His mouth opened and closed like he was exercising his jaw as he searched for words. ‘You know who I’m after.’ He placed a ten-pound note in the barman’s open palm, ‘Come on, mate… I can tell, y’know.’

  The barman took the money, curled it in his fist and turned to the till. The cash drawer rattled noisily as it opened, then again when it was closed. He scratched the back of his shaven head, the glow of the bar lights reflected on his crown for a moment. Henderson watched, clamping his teeth as the barman stretched around and placed his change on the counter. He didn’t make eye contact again, returned to the other end of the bar and picked up a copy of the News.

  Henderson kept his gaze fixed on him; he could feel his stomach start to cramp as he tensed his muscles. He picked up his pint, quaffed the head and strolled around the bar and the old men seated beside him. His legs ached now, the muscles started to feel heavy. He’d exerted himself more than usual; even working the clutch on the car had set up a twinge in his calf. He knew he was in no shape for confrontation, but he wasn’t there to be ignored. As he strolled to the end of the bar, the door opened and an office worker walked in shaking out the wet from her hair; her earrings swayed in time with the turning of her head. Henderson watched her pass him by, touched the package of money sitting in his pocket, and waited for a gap to appear at the counter. He felt his cheeks flush as he approached the sulky barman.

  ‘Look, mate, do me a favour, eh… I have something here for,’ he dropped his head, lowered his voice, ‘Shaky.’

  The barman eyed him over the newspaper for a few moments, lowered it, folded it. Henderson saw the cold pustules of sweat sitting out on his forehead as he rose, crossed the short distance to the bar and slapped down the News, said, ‘Wait here.’

  Henderson followed the back of the barman’s shaven head as he walked away from him, turned at the end of the bar and raised the counter. In a few steps he was lost in the blur of bodies. The room had filled up. Henderson felt himself tune in to the birr of unknown voices and settled himself on a stool. He took up his pint again, gulped a mouthful and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He felt uncomfortable now, his neck tensed and set up the same aches and pains as his stomach and legs. Shaky was unpredictable, he told himself, but he wasn’t stupid. He had asked to be paid, sent one of his pugs round; he could hardly complain. Surely Shaky wanted to be paid. He felt himself struggle to find comfort on the bar stool, he settled his weight first on his right thigh, then his left. Nothing seemed to work. He rose, pushed in the stool and raked the room for a familiar face, but found none. He picked up the copy of the News that the barman had left behind, idly turned over the pages. He continued skimming until he alighted upon a story that took his attention: the parents of the murdered girl found at Straiton had given an interview.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. They had given details how she had been tied up, choked on her own underwear and her genitals mutilated. Henderson felt a flash of heat in his gut, he wanted to return to Crawley; he had been too soft on him. He took the page from the newspaper, folded it in two, then folded it again and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. He was finishing off the dregs of his pint when the barman reappeared, his slack jowls slapping on his neck as he walked. At the end of the bar he raised the counter again, eased himself under it and paced the distance between himself and Henderson. He kept his eyes dipped towards the bare boards as he walked. ‘Right, come here,’ the barman flicked his head to the side as he spoke.

  Henderson took a step closer, watched as the barman picked up the copy of the News then slapped it on the bar counter again.

  ‘Are you Hendy?’

  ‘Aye’

  The man prodded the paper with his index finger. ‘If you’ve got something for Boaby, put it in there.’ He still hadn’t made eye contact with Henderson; his teeth clicked as he clamped his jaw shut.

  Henderson cleared his throat, he felt the tension sitting between them like an air of thick cigarette smoke. He removed the cash from his jacket pocket and placed it on top of the newspaper; he watched as the barman folded over the front page and picked up the bundle. He swiftly placed it under the counter, looked back towards Henderson and for the first time since he’d walked in, made eye contact. He said, ‘Now fuck off.’

  Henderson’s eyes receded, he riled, ‘What if I want another pint?’

  The barman’s voice rasped, took on a harder edge. ‘No pints here for you.’

  Henderson felt a needle jab his intestines, he had settled a large share of his debt to Shaky — he felt entitled to better treatment. The thought of his true worth stung him. He stood staring at the barman, turned his head to the door, then glanced back: the barman’s firm gaze was still fixed in Henderson’s direction. ‘You not hear me? Fuck off… Now.’ He took a step forward and Henderson backed away.

  As he went, an old man at the bar raised a finger, pushed his way past him, and ordered a pint. The bare wood boards creaked as Henderson walked towards the line of white light that sat beneath the door. As he took the handle the flat wall dimly reflected the street lights outside the bar. The wind bit as he stepped onto the pavement; bitter rain lashed his face as he walked.

  Crawley’s car had been ticketed where he had parked; Henderson leaned over and grabbed the sticker from the windscreen, scrunched it up. The wind caught the piece of paper as it dropped towards the gutter; he watched it roll down the street, picking up
pace. He opened the door, slumped inside the car and slotted the key in the ignition. As he released the handbrake, the wheels spun on the wet road and he accelerated towards the city centre through the falling rain.

  By Crawley’s house, Henderson had released and clamped his teeth so many times that his jaw ached. He felt a still fury bubbling inside him as he slung the wheel towards the driveway and braked heavily. For a moment he sat staring out the window at the lashing rain then a set of twitching curtains in a neighbouring property grabbed his attention. The act seemed to jar him back to consciousness; he reached for the door handle and opened up. In the pathway towards Crawley’s home, Henderson jogged, cupping his burning cigarette in his hand to shelter it from the wind and rain. He had always smoked like this — even before prison — but the movement reminded him of life on the inside once again, of smoking in the yard. What had he done? he thought. He’d taken a man prisoner. What was it Crawley had called it? Kidnapping. Mistaken identity.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Henderson.

  He knew Crawley was guilty, he didn’t need a judge and jury to confirm it. The man was a nonce, a beast. He’d preyed on young girls; he’d terrified Angela. He tried to remind himself of this as he opened up the door to Crawley’s home. Henderson still felt ice in his veins from the reception he’d received at the Wheatsheaf, but it mattered less to him now. He would take the rest of the cash from Crawley’s accounts tomorrow and he’d settle some more of that score then. He’d be free of Boaby Stevens eventually and he’d be able to think about his next move.

  Henderson called out as he closed the door, ‘Here’s Johnny!’

  There was no reply; the place seemed too quiet.

  Henderson lowered the keys onto the hallway table, rubbed the rain from his hair. He settled his breathing for a moment to listen for movement: he heard nothing. The place was silent. He leaned forward, rested the palm of his hand on the banister, looked up the stairs; the house had darkened now but there was no sign of lights burning. He scratched an itch on his brow, said, ‘Get a grip, Hendy…’

  Henderson knew he had the situation under control: he’d tied Crawley up in the front room, he’d checked the knots, they were tight, secure. He smiled to himself, moved towards the living room door. As he grabbed for the handle he felt his breathing still, he double-blinked, halted his action and stopped still.

  Something wasn’t right, it was too quiet.

  He felt his heart rate ramp as he turned the handle.

  The living room was in darkness. The curtains were still open, the night outside showed a catenation of street lamps burning, bathing the pavement in a sickly orange glow. It took Henderson’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, then he settled on where he had left Crawley, tied and bound, before he left to pay his debt to Boaby Stevens. There was a pale patch of carpet and a long loop of unfurled nylon rope, but no Crawley.

  Henderson stepped forward, turned towards the wall and groped in the darkness for the light switch.

  When the room became illuminated he called out, ‘Crawley, you fucking bastard!’

  Chapter 35

  Angela Mickle pulled her knees up before her where she sat on the filthy mattress. She rocked on her bony rear and ran the palms of her hands down the fronts of her skinny legs. A car’s horn sounded beyond the window, making her wince; at once she raised her hands to her ears and held them there, tried to block out the world beyond the mattress. Angela knew she should be out on the Links, scoring punters, scoring drugs. She knew that was why she felt the way she did — why her insides felt like they were being slow-cooked over an open flame — but there was a reason why she couldn’t face the Links.

  She didn’t know how long Henderson had been away, she found it hard to record the passing of time — all time was withdrawal, minutes soon became hours, which became days. She knew, however, the longer he stayed away, the greater danger she may be in. Henderson didn’t know Colin Crawley; not like she did.

  ‘No. No. No.’

  The memories returned when she thought about him. Angela didn’t want to remember what knowing Crawley had meant.

  She turned, twisted herself on the mattress to face the wall. ‘No.’ It didn’t matter how many times she said it though, the images, the pictures and the words, his words, were still there.

  ‘Angela,’ he was calling to her.

  ‘Angela…’ She could hear his voice, it hadn’t changed. As a young girl she had been flattered by the voice to begin with. He was a grown-up, an adult. Mr Crawley was her teacher, her gymnastics coach. No one had shown any interest in her until he had. She felt special — he made her feel special.

  ‘Angela…’ The word set her muscles harder, her toes curled into the mattress. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else but he was there, taunting her wherever she looked. Henderson thought he was just a square peg, a teacher, but he wasn’t. She had tried to tell him that he was a danger, but it hadn’t registered.

  ‘He’s a fucking beast, Ange,’ he’d said. ‘A beast! I’ve dealt with them before.’

  She didn’t want to know what he planned to do with Crawley, she didn’t want to think about it, but the longer he was away from her the more scared she became. With Henderson around she felt safe, he looked after her on the Links and made sure no harm came to her from the punters or the girls. But Crawley was different, he was capable of much worse than Henderson imagined; she knew, she’d seen it. She remembered again his eyes bulging as he wrestled her to the ground and then she felt his hot breath on her neck as he pressed himself onto her in the field.

  ‘Oh, God…’ Ange’s voice was low and strained, strangled in her vocal cords. A dull gaze settled in her eyes as she looked towards the window and the street below. It was as good as dark. The street lamps were on. She began to feel the walls of the small flat enclosing her.

  She rose, ran to the opposite end of the room and stood by the window. A packet of cigarettes sat on the ledge, a box of matches on top — she snatched them up. Her hands trembled as she clawed open the box and shook out a cigarette. She got the filter to her mouth and struck a match; the tobacco smoke tasted good but was a poor substitute for what she really wanted. As she smoked, Angela noticed the dark black crescents that sat under her nails — Henderson had always warned her about that, said it put off the punters; she somehow felt engulfed by a great sadness at the thought of Henderson now and wondered what had become of him.

  ‘Neil, Neil… where are you?’

  The cigarette burned quickly and when it was finished she stubbed the dowp on the windowsill and let the cold night breeze take the crushed filter tip away. She had seen worse nights; it was dry. A crowd of people had gathered on the other side of the road by the bus stop; it made her feel safe to see so many strangers, but at the same time the loneliness she felt in the empty flat started to prod her. Angela picked up the cigarettes and the matches and walked to the door; her shoes lay beside the skirting, she fitted her feet into them and reached for her coat. She stowed away the cigarettes and checked she had a store of condoms. Her heart was pounding as she opened the front door and walked towards the stairwell.

  Angela gripped the banister tightly as she descended the staircase. Her high heels sounded noisily on the stone steps and she tried to raise herself up on her toes to compensate. She felt self-conscious, but she longed to be around people now — the flat seemed suddenly unsafe. Her thoughts had left Henderson, she was preoccupied with herself and her survival through the night; she believed if she could score enough money for drugs then at least she wouldn’t need to think about Crawley; that would be taken care of.

  Outside a moonless sky sat low and dark like a backcloth to the tenements. The wind swept litter along the street and struck at Angela’s bare legs like a lash. She dug her hands deeper in her pockets, balled fists as she scanned the faces in the crowd. Crawley was out there, she knew it, sensed it. She wished Henderson was here, he would talk sense to her; Angela knew she was always lettin
g her thoughts run away with her, that’s what Henderson had said: ‘Leave the thinking to me, Ange, you’re not fit for it.’ She liked that, liked the feeling of putting all the responsibility in someone else’s hands. But what if something had happened to him? What if Crawley had got the better of Henderson? She knew it could happen, she knew what he was capable of. She could never forget what Crawley was capable of.

  Angela picked up her pace, her heels clacked on the hard paving flags; her heart rate started to ramp up. A tightening in her chest began to constrict her breathing and she slowed, balancing herself on the wall of the late-night grocer’s store with an outstretched palm. She started to cough, spat up some gelatinous bile. People walking past stared at her, she caught one of them shaking her head in her direction.

  ‘What’s your fucking problem, eh?’

  The woman looked away, grabbed at the scarf around her neck, tightened it as she strode off at an increased pace.

  ‘Aye, nothing to fucking say, eh?’ Angela roared at her; she found her breath again, felt emboldened as she started off for the Links with the sounds of the street and the traffic ululating in her ears.

  Cars had started to patrol the edges of the Links already. Old Cavaliers with middle-aged men craning their necks over the dash to check out the flesh on offer. Angela spotted one of the girls getting into a Volvo; there was a ‘Baby on Board’ sticker visible through the back window — it made her smile to think of the punter going back to his family after spending hard-earned wages on a tumble with a whore. No one was innocent, she thought. Everyone was tainted in some way, there was none of us perfect. She knew why she was walking the Links, what had driven her to this low in her life. She could have been somebody else once, she knew that too. She could have been the stay-at-home wife with the babies and the big telly and the weekends away; but she could also have been married to the bastard driving the Volvo, they weren’t better than her just because they lived a different way. People were trash, she’d met enough of them to form that judgement.