Murder Mile drb-2

by Tony Black

  After an hour on the Links Angela had collected close to ninety pounds; it wasn’t enough. She doubted whether Henderson would be back to take his share — she had come to that conclusion before she left the flat — but even so, ninety wasn’t enough for her needs. She drew her jacket tight round her shoulders, looked towards the sky. The gloom of the night had settled above the rooftops where a blunt moon had appeared, partitioning the street and the Links with a waxy sheen. Angela withdrew a cigarette, asked one of the girls for a light.

  ‘Quiet night, now,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘Might pick up.’

  ‘Doubt it, think there must be a game on.’

  Angela looked up the road; there was a man standing beyond the glare of the street lamp. ‘Here’s a punter now.’

  ‘Lucky you…’

  Angela smiled, ‘I only need one and I’m off, Kirsty.’

  ‘Think I’ll be ahead of you.’ The brass walked away, in the opposite direction, as Angela strode out towards the man on the other side of the street. He was hunched against the wall, his face hidden. He wore a long baggy coat and the breeze caught the folds, sending them flapping like sails.

  Angela called out to him, ‘You looking for business?’

  There was no answer; the man barely moved, only seemed to shrink further into the shadow.

  Angela took a last drag on her cigarette, flicked the butt into the street and hurried her steps. Punters were wary, some would bolt if they thought they might have been seen. She knew to play cautious; as the man turned and made for the lane, she followed. Angela was only two or three steps into the darkness when Crawley turned and clasped a hand on her mouth and dragged her kicking and trying to scream towards the depths of the narrow passage.

  Angela’s eyes flickered as she watched Crawley’s features come into focus. She tried to yell out but there was no power left in her voice; she couldn’t even breath as Crawley held his hand over her mouth and nostrils. She thought she might pass out and for a second she hoped she would — that would be the end of it surely; if she passed out, she wouldn’t come round. Something caused her to struggle with what strength she had; it was as if she was drowning, flailing her arms to keep her afloat. She felt herself lifted off the ground; one of her shoes came off and then the other made contact with the wall of the lane and she pushed herself away with all her remaining strength.

  ‘Stop struggling, Angela,’ said Crawley. His voice was calm, familiar. It flung her back in time. ‘That’s better. I always knew you were a smart girl.’ Crawley released his grip on Angela’s face and neck; he looked down at her.

  ‘Wha…’ Angela tried to speak but the words were trapped in her.

  Crawley pushed into her, she backed away. She put her hands out to feel her way, there was a recess; she backed into it and Crawley followed.

  ‘What d-do you want with me?’

  Crawley continued to push towards her, she felt the back of the doorway. There was a handle, she turned to face it, grabbed it, but it didn’t move. She rested her head on the door, sobbed. ‘Please…’

  ‘Angela, come on now… You know me better than that, surely?’

  She cried harder now. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that… here?’ Crawley raised his hands at his sides as if he was weighing the air.

  Angela turned back to face him; her eyes widened as she took in the full glare of Crawley’s face. ‘I–I don’t know.’

  ‘And neither do I, Angela… You do know why I am here, though, don’t you?’

  She shook, tried to move to her side but Crawley copied her movements and blocked her way. ‘What have you done with Neil?’

  ‘Ah, your boyfriend… Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. So you knew he came to see me at school, did you? Of course, you must have, how else would he have found out if you hadn’t told him?’ There was a sound of movement at the entrance to the lane; Crawley turned away, a cat mewed and he seemed to settle. He put his hand in his pocket, removed a bunch of plastic cable ties, started to loop them together.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘You made a mistake, Angela… You should never have told anyone about our little secret.’

  ‘I didn’t… I didn’t tell…’

  He reached forward, ‘Give me your arms.’

  ‘No.’ She pinned herself against the doorway again, called out, ‘Help! Help me…’

  Crawley reached a hand to her throat, said, ‘Now I’m warning you

  …’

  Angela struggled harder, reached out with her nails. ‘Help!’

  ‘Stop fucking about!’ Crawley grabbed one of her wrists, slipped her hand through the cable tie and tightened it. She pushed her way past him as he slipped the second loop over her other hand, then the sound of fast-moving footsteps from the lane seemed to still him.

  ‘Ange!.. Ange, you OK?’ It was Kirsty.

  Crawley loosened his grip on the ties and let Angela’s hands fall to her side; as he bolted into the lane, she slumped against the door and sobbed.

  Chapter 36

  Neil Henderson girded himself against the cold wind as he walked, trying hard to still the rage he felt burning inside him, hot as any blast furnace. He cleared his throat as he approached the bus stop, spat fast onto the street. He raised his head to look over at the windows of the flat he shared with Angela; he didn’t want to return there but knew he had no choice. Crawley had fled, but he couldn’t have gone far; Henderson knew he wouldn’t have gone far. There was no point: what would it take, a call? One call, that was all that was needed to put Crawley away. Henderson knew he had him; the beast would be back, had to be back, had to return to his home and face him. Henderson held all the cards, there was no question of that, the only thing he wondered about now was just what the hell Crawley thought he was playing at.

  Henderson waited for a gap in the traffic, picked up his pace as he ran between a Lothian Bus and a blue Micra; the small car started to roll forward as he stepped in front of it and he stopped in his tracks.

  ‘What the fuck you playing at?’ he roared. He raised up his hands then slammed them down on the bonnet of the car; it was an old man behind the wheel, he looked at Henderson over the dash and shook his head. It came as incitement to the younger man. ‘You fucking old prick!’ He kicked at the bumper, sneered again and then walked off, saluting the V-sign as he went. By the other side of the street Henderson was still venting his anger, kicking out at the door to the stairwell and stomping in.

  Inside the stair, Henderson slammed the door with the heel of his shoe and then leaned his back flat against it. He let out a long, slow exhalation of breath and then he groaned audibly as he banged the back of his head into the wood panel. He jerked his head forward, then back again. The sound came like a hard slap at first, but as he increased the intensity of the blows, dull thuds like heavy footfalls echoed up the stairwell. He clenched his teeth shut. A rigid sneer set on his face as he pushed himself off the door and took to the first step.

  Outside the flat Henderson paused for a moment; his fingers tingled as he drew fists and released them quickly. His thoughts turned over; danced between Crawley and his disappearance and the humiliation he had felt trying to pay off Boaby Stevens in the Wheatsheaf. He felt trapped; nothing was going to plan. It was supposed to be easy: hit the beast for a few quid and move on. Get rid of the deadweight around his neck that Angela had become and make a fresh start. It didn’t matter where, all that mattered was when. Henderson wanted to move on now. He grasped the door handle and walked in. ‘Ange, where the fuck are you?’

  There was a groan from the front room. Henderson felt his cheeks flush as he studied the hallway. The place was in darkness, save for the light from the street that fell through the uncovered window. As he trod the bare boards, a grey half moon appeared through the window pane and drew a sickly gleam over the contents of the room. His eyelids twitched as he let his vision adjust to the new setting; on the
mattress, curled in a ball, was Angela.

  ‘Jesus Christ… Look at the fucking state of you,’ said Henderson.

  She let out a dull, muddled trail of words. He knew at once she was wasted.

  ‘Is this what you’ve been at tonight is it?… Fucking wasted again.’ He grabbed her hair in his fist and turned her over; her cheekbones shone in the light of the half moon. ‘You fucking piece of shit…’

  ‘Hendy… I was…’

  She didn’t get the words out before she was thrown heavily towards the mattress. Henderson stood back, cleared all expression from his face as he watched her holding her stomach, writhing in drug-addled confusion. Something snapped in him; his blank features became animated as he pulled back his fist and brought it down on Angela’s face.

  She screamed out, at first it seemed in terror, and then, as the blows rained, her cries signalled a deeper agony. ‘Stop. Stop…’

  ‘I’ll fucking stop all right… stop when you’ve had some fucking sense drummed into you!’

  Henderson kept up his attack until he lost his strength; the blows became weaker, not worth his effort. As he raised himself, withdrew, Angela was a curled, sobbing, bleeding tangle of limbs on the floor. He watched her for a moment; she lay trembling and rocking, crying. He felt no sympathy for her, she was trash.

  He moved to the side of the window and lit a cigarette. His cheeks creased at the corners of his mouth as he inhaled deeply. The nicotine stilled his surging pulse for a moment. He coughed, ran open fingers through his hair.

  ‘Hendy…’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  He turned towards the window, looked out at the throngs of people on the pavement, the lines of slow-moving traffic clogging the road. The wind soughed against the pane and shook the frame in a loose rattle above the sill. The chill air in the flat made his moist forehead tingle after his exertions. He took another draw on his cigarette, turned back to Angela. Her drowsy eyes flickered as she took him in.

  ‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he said.

  She scowled, pinching her bleeding nose and lips. ‘I–I tried to tell you… I t-tried…’

  ‘Tell me fucking what?’ He pointed at her, shook his head and looked away. ‘Ah, what the fuck do you know… fucking junkie.’

  Angela pitched her voice higher, rose onto her knees. ‘He came to the Links… I was out there, I saw him.’

  Henderson spat, ‘Crawley?’

  Angela held out her hands, ‘Yes, he grabbed m-me.’

  His breathing had steadied now, but suddenly stared to shorten again. ‘Why… I mean, what did he want?’

  Angela swayed; unsteady where she positioned herself beside the mattress, she reached out a hand to the edge of the door frame to hold herself up. ‘He wanted to take me… He wanted to scare you.’

  Henderson laughed, he scratched at the edge of his nose then quickly took another draw on the cigarette. ‘He thinks…’ he pointed to Angela with the tip of the cigarette, ‘I give two fucks about you, he thought that?’ He laughed, a spluttering guttural wheeze. The thought stuck in his chest like a winding. ‘He’s mistaken; fucking sorely so…’

  Angela slumped to the side, reached out a hand to support herself as the delicate balance of her weight shifted. Her hair flopped in front of her eyes and she lowered her head towards the floor. Henderson watched her with a heavy thought settling on his mind; he stubbed his cigarette and headed towards the door. At the mattress he stood over Angela for a moment, contemplated levelling a boot at her head but the effort seemed unnecessary; she was already out of it. He reached under the mattress and removed the small mauve-coloured diary that she had shown him and tucked it in his jacket pocket. He bent over, grabbed her by the hair, raised her head off the floor a few inches, ‘You better get that hole of yours out on those Links… There’s no free fucking lunches in this world!’ As he released his grip, Angela’s head connected with the bare floorboards making a solid thud.

  In Crawley’s car, on the way back to the teacher’s home, Henderson turned over his thoughts. His face sat tense as he held his jaw shut. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and his insides felt raw. What had Crawley been playing at? Showing up on the Links, trying to put a scare on Angela. Was he stupid? It was him Crawley needed to worry about, Henderson told himself. He gripped the wheel harder, felt his fingernails digging into the trim.

  ‘Fucking daft prick,’ he mouthed to himself.

  The traffic had cleared, the roads starting to take on the deserted feel of this time of the night. Edinburgh gave over its centre to taxi cabs and stretch limos ferrying hen nights to and from the pubs and clubs after a certain hour. The city wasn’t a place for people who lived there at this time; it was for the out-of-towners, the party people.

  Henderson passed girls, teetering on high heels in short, tight dresses, and rowdy groups of drunken revellers — boys, acting like men and their obverse: men who should know better than acting like boys. The place sickened Henderson at this time of night, it was all kebab shop fights and punters puking and pissing. He’d had enough of mixing it with their sort; where was his share of the good times? Where was his ease and comfort? He didn’t want to hear another word out of Angela; he didn’t want to be out on the Links watching her back or watching to make sure she was on her back. He’d had enough. He wanted something else, something he felt he’d earned, felt he deserved.

  As he pulled into Crawley’s driveway, Henderson noticed the bulb burning in the front room: he was home. ‘Cheeky prick,’ he said. ‘Fucking sitting there bold as brass…’

  Henderson killed the engine, opened the door and stepped out. He stood on the driveway scree for a moment, turned towards the house and then slammed the car door as loud as possible. He waited to see if there would be any movement in the house: the sound of the back door opening or the light going out. Nothing. Crawley was either unfazed or fronting it out like he was. Henderson felt his throat stiffen and his nostrils widen as he gasped a deep breath.

  The front door was unlocked. He moved in, closed it behind him. The lamp with the tassels in the hallway was burning. It looked all too cosy. Henderson set his gaze on the door to the living room and stretched out a pace towards where he knew Crawley would be waiting.

  As he entered the room the television blared; Coronation Street was just going into a commercial break, the ginger cat loping over the shed roof. Henderson watched the screen for a second or two, then followed the light as it bounced off the window pane. He moved towards the Venetian blinds, closed them and then returned to the television and switched it off. As he did so, Crawley appeared from the kitchen holding a mug of tea. He stalled where he stood, splay-footed, for a moment and then he proceeded into the living room and resumed his place on the sofa.

  ‘You must think I’m a fucking daftie, mate?’ said Henderson.

  Crawley sipped his tea, rested the mug on the arm of the sofa. ‘I can’t say I’ve given you much thought… Lately.’

  Henderson walked in front of him, ‘Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Have you fucking-well lost it?’

  Crawley turned the handle of his mug to the other side, raised the tea to his lips and started to blow on it. His lips were pinched as Henderson slapped the mug from his hands and gripped his throat. ‘Don’t get cocky with me, you little cunt. I’m not a man who takes kindly to that.’

  ‘I’ve cancelled my cards,’ said Crawley.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I think you heard. You’ll get nothing more out of me.’

  Henderson stepped back, his brows furrowed and lined. His eyebrows sat low above his thinned eyes. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Do you want me to pick up the phone to the filth? Is that it, you got some hard-on for the world to know you’re a fucking beast all of a sudden?’

  Crawley smiled, ‘Ah, now that might have worked earlier… But not now.’

  ‘Oh, you think?’

  ‘I know.’

  Henderson stepped aside, rai
sed a finger to wag in Crawley’s face. ‘You think that because Ange is on the Links now that makes an ounce of difference… Fucking no chance. They’ll toast your bollocks over a fire, beast.’

  ‘I don’t think so…’

  Henderson smiled, ‘I know you saw her, on the Links… You think putting a scare on her makes any difference? It’s me you have to worry about.’

  Crawley crossed his legs, started to drum a finger on his kneecap. ‘ You threatened me… And you put a prostitute up to this. There’s not a court in the land will take your claims seriously. But more than that, I’m sure Angela will be too delicate to go through with any plans you might have.’

  Henderson edged forward, a truculent gleam lit in his eye. He dipped inside his jacket pocket and removed the diary, threw it into Crawley’s lap. ‘Read it and weep, beast.’

  ‘What’s this?’ He raised the diary, turned over a few pages. ‘Some kind of diary… A schoolgirl’s diary.’

  ‘It’s Ange’s diary… She kept it at school, and guess what, you feature quite prominently in there, beast.’

  Crawley thumbed through the pages; his eyes scanned left to right. For a moment he stalled on one of the pages then turned it. He turned another page and seemed to tire of looking at the diary altogether. ‘This is nothing… You can write anything on paper, it’s hardly incriminating.’

  Henderson snatched the diary back, tucked it in his pocket. He took his palm across Crawley’s face; the smack lit a red streak from chin to brow. ‘Don’t fucking push it, beast… I could easy beat what I want out of you if you prefer.’

  Crawley lifted his hands to his head; his crossed leg raised in time with the movement as his bravado left him. ‘You’ve had all I have!’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Crawley raised both feet from the floor and cowered on the sofa; he turned his head to look as Henderson raised his hand to level another blow. ‘No. Stop…’ Crawley reached into his trouser pocket and removed a bundle of notes, crumpled fives and tens. ‘Here take it… take it!’