I’ve already decided that I won’t kill him. It’d be far too risky. If I get caught, I wouldn’t be able to go after the man behind it all, because I was pretty sure Conlan and his partner in crime wouldn’t have done what they did without being paid.
“Tell me, or I’ll use these on you. Imagining them burning into your skin. The pain will be excruciating.”
It works. Underneath the gag he whimpers, and there’s pleading in his eyes.
Placing the tongs on the heat mat at the foot of the bed, I remove the gag. “Well?”
“Shaun Yates. The other guy’s called Shaun Yates.” His voice is hoarse from yelling underneath the gag. When they’d gagged me, I’d screamed too. But they hadn’t asked me any questions, given me any hope at all that it would end. Not like I’m giving Conlan.
“Where can I find him?”
He hesitates, so I pick up the tongs and hold them up for him to see. “Do you want me to fry your sperm? Do the world a favor?”
He winces because he knows I’ll do it. “He’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“And I’ll fry your balls if you don’t. What’s the most likely thing to happen first?”
I pick up the tongs and he freaks. “All right, all right.” He’s one of the doormen at the Dollhouse in town.”
It was a lap-dancing bar, but everyone knew it was a front for prostitution and drugs.
“Now will you let me go?”
He’s pleading with me.
“Only if you tell me who paid you and why. What were they looking for at my parents’ house?”
His podgy face is the color of concrete. “I can’t tell you that. He’d kill me.”
My lips curl up. “Oh, but if you don’t, I’ll kill you now.”
“You’re a psycho bitch. But you’re not in this guy’s league.” He doesn’t say it in a sarcastic way. His lips are trembling, and there’s so much sweat pooling on his forehead he looks like he’s been in a sauna.
“I wouldn’t be too sure.” I pause to check my watch. “The roofies should be kicking in about now. We’re gonna have so much fun.”
My tone’s light, as though we’re at a party, as I replace the gag. He’s not going to tell me who he’s working for and what they wanted, so it’s time for me to extract my revenge.
When I’m sure the drugs have kicked in—Conlan is staring up at the ceiling as though he’s fascinated by something up there—I get busy with the knife.
Using a knife to cut into human flesh isn’t easy, because despite being tied up he won’t stay still, but somehow I manage it.
A noxious smell snakes its way up my nostrils, and glancing down I see he’s soiled himself. For the first time, I feel a niggle of shame that this is what I’ve been reduced to.
Later, as I survey my handiwork, I say, “This is what it feels like to be helpless.”
There’s no response from him; maybe he’s passed out with the pain or fallen asleep. After I’d used a knife to carve rapist into his stomach, he’d bled like a pig.
Before I leave, I go round the apartment wiping prints off anything I might have touched. Once I’ve made sure I’ve left nothing behind, I close the door for the last time and shove the keys through.
Hurrying along, I find a telephone box and phone for an ambulance, disguising my voice by pinching my nose and putting on an accent. I tell them that someone’s hurt and that they need urgent medical help, and then I hang up.
Before I’d left, I’d given Conlan more Rohypnol. For a while, he’ll be lucky enough to remember his name, never mind warn his partner in crime about me. And he won’t have his phone with my text messages because I removed the SIM card and battery and smashed it to bits before I dumped it down a garbage chute.
Chapter 20
DC McKeith’s lanky frame loomed in the doorway, casting a shadow so wide it could have been a net from a fishing trawler.
“You’re not going to believe this, sir, but an ambulance was called to an address in Shettleston last night. They found Paul Conlan tied up and drugged. Someone used a knife to carve the world rapist into his stomach. He was found naked but for a pair a boxers.”
Waddell made a face. “Heck, Brian, could you not have given me some warning? I’ve just eaten my breakfast.”
“Sorry, sir. I should have warned you it was a bit gruesome.”
‘Nah, I’m not talking about that. I’m picturing that fat bastard in his boxers. Enough to make anyone sick.”
“Oh, right.”
Christ, thought Waddell, this one was seriously missing a funny bone, and if he thought a wee bit of carving was gruesome, he should have seen the man whose face had been shoved into a barbecue grill and held there. Waddell had seen that twenty years ago now and never forgotten it.
Waddell carried on. “He’s one of Sandy McNab’s boys, if my memory serves me right. Or enforcers, as the media like calling psychos who keep finding inventive uses for blowtorches and hammers.”
“Aye,” said McKeith, who no doubt already had his nose in the file.
He was thorough that way, and that’s what would make him a good copper one day. For now, it was as though Waddell had been entrusted with a wee ducking and had to teach it how to swim, although on reflection, McKeith was more of a cygnet.
“Is there any chance he’s going to die? Get the crime stats down to make the chief constable happy?”
Waddell was disappointed when the young DC said there was no chance of that happening, because Conlan was a right piece of work. He’d once stabbed a man in the back and tried to rape the man’s wife over a debt. The court case had collapsed after witnesses withdrew their watertight testimonies. They tended to do that when Sandy McNab’s lot were involved.
“They do reckon, though, that if someone hadn’t phoned for an ambulance, he could have got an infection and died or starved to death. He was still tied up when they found him.”
Waddell pushed his paperwork aside. “Goodie. This is the day that just keeps giving. I take it Galbraith wants us to have a wee chat with our Mr. Conlan?”
“Aye, sir. But we’ll need to wait. They found traces of Rohypnol in his system, and he’s talking a load of gibberish. The doctor’s saying that because of the Rohypnol, he might not remember what happened for days, weeks, or at all.”
Waddell knew the score when it came to that drug. He knew there were men roaming the streets who should have been in prison for rape, but because they’d used Rohypnol, a power sedative intended to treat sleeping disorders, they were free men. Rohypnol took away folks’ memories or they became fragmented. That’s why it was the date rapist’s drug of choice.
“Righty ho, Brian. We’ll pay him a visit as soon as he regains his faculties, although he wasn’t the brightest star in the constellation to start with. Chances are he’ll still be talking shite.”
Waddell was a wee bit disappointed that they couldn’t see Conlan. He fancied getting a break from all this paperwork that was piling up faster than used-up reality TV stars, even if it was just for a trip to the infirmary.
Then, as McKeith was about to close the door, a thought popped into his brain. There was someone he had to visit, although he doubted they would be pleased to see him, either.
“Grab your coat, Brian. We need to pay a certain young lady a visit.”
He filled Nancy Drew in on the way there.
Chapter 21
My latest “home” has a big bay window large enough for a table and two chairs, and that’s where I’m sitting with DI Waddell whilst his leggy sidekick sits on the sofa peering at me over his specs.
“Nice view you have here, Nancy,” Waddell chirps.
“I like it.”
One of the nicer parts of Glasgow, in the Hyndland area you could pretend that you’re out in the countryside. Trees sway in the breeze, and greenery is everywhere. Bit pricy, though, so I can only afford a small studio apartment.
Waddell pulls himself up straight. “I won’t beat about the bush. Last night, a man w
as found at an address in the city. Someone had given him a good-bye gift with a knife. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you, Nancy?”
“Of course not. Why would I know anything about that?”
Waddell presses his hands together. “This man says the last thing he remembers was meeting a woman.”
I pull myself up straight, not shying away from his stony gaze. “There are a lot of women in Glasgow, Inspector.”
I’m not worried about Conlan identifying me. He won’t be compos mentis for a while yet, as Rohypnol’s effects can take twenty-four hours to wear off. And if he does by some chance come to sooner, he can hardly say it was me because then he’d be incriminating himself.
Waddell fixes me with one of his serious stares. “But there’s not many who would carve the word rapist into a man’s stomach.”
“Maybe he is a rapist.” I say it like a member of the public trying to help the police, not like a vigilante.
“That may or may not be so, but when a crime is committed we have to investigate, no matter who the victim is.”
“I understand.”
Waddell fixes me with an earnest look. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, Nancy, but he was in the frame for your parents’ murder and your assault until an alibi from his girlfriend and mother ruled him out of any involvement.”
I try to appear shocked by this revelation.
Waddell puts a hand on his chest. “Nancy, you do know that you shouldn’t take justice into your own hands? That’s vigilantism, and in Glasgow we don’t allow vigilantism.”
He says vigilantism like it’s a dirty word; I prefer to call it revenge.
“Where were you last night between eight p.m. and midnight, Miss Kerr?”
Waddell’s had enough of me, and it’s the lanky one’s turn to ask the questions.
I swallow. “Do I have to answer that?”
Legs (as I’m now going to call him) noisily flicks to a new page in his notebook. “It will help eliminate you from our enquiries if you do.”
“Fair enough. I was at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at St. Christopher’s Church. It started at seven and ended about nine, then I went home.” My gaze falls to my lap. “Since I got out of the hospital, I’ve been addicted to prescription painkillers.”
Waddell and Legs make no comment as they get up to leave.
“Take care of yourself, Nancy,” Waddell says before I close the door.
“Do you think she’s lying, sir?” McKeith said as they drove back to the station.
“I honestly don’t know, Brian. But I do have an inkling that she’s holding something back. I have from the beginning.”
Waddell almost grinned. He’d just noticed that when the young cop frowned, he looked like Stan Laurel. He carried on talking. “We’ll need to see if Conlan can identify this woman. It won’t be easy, though, because of the drugs. It causes memory loss, and he didn’t have many brain cells to start with.”
McKeith tapped the steering wheel. “It’s her alibi that’s bothering me, sir.”
“I know what you mean, Brian. It’s one she knows we can’t check. They’re guaranteed complete confidentiality at those meetings. You couldn’t prise that information out of them with a warrant.”
McKeith’s face was animated behind his glasses. “Doesn’t mean we can’t do some detective work, though, sir, does it?”
“Go ahead, Brian. It’ll have to be on your own time, though. Galbraith won’t sanction any overtime. There’s not enough cash.”
And wasn’t that the story of the police service these days? Too many criminals and not enough money to make sure there were officers available to catch them.
Chapter 22
Paul Conlan was not a pretty sight, Waddell thought as a small, blonde nurse led them to his bed, but then he’d never been George Clooney to start with. When he was born, his mother must have tried to push him back in again.
The angry red burn on his cheek was still visible under the bandages they’d put there to treat the wound, and the best thing about that was it hid some of his face.
Waddell and McKeith showed Conlan their warrant cards and got a glower in return.
“Hello, Mr. Conlan. I’m DI Waddell and this is DC McKeith. We’re here to find out what happened to you. Are you able to talk?”
Conlan snorted, “Aye,” as he peered at them with ferrety eyes. “So you are. You’re here to stitch me up.” He made an oink noise. “Think I smell bacon.”
Waddell ignored him and sat down as McKeith took the other chair and opened his spiral notebook.
McKeith was first to speak. “Can you tell us what happened to you, sir? Anything that you remember?”
Waddell noticed McKeith didn’t say sir in the same sarcastic way other officers would have, especially after the bacon remark, and was impressed.
Conlan still eyed him as if he were pond scum. “I was meeting this bird. Right hot piece, she was, and she was well up for it. Next thing I know, your lot are kicking down the door, my stomach’s stinging like a bastard, and my face has been burnt and I’m fucking freezing.”
McKeith read out the address where they’d found him. “Ring any bells?”
Conlan said he wasn’t sure.
“Do you remember anything about the assault itself?”
Conlan seemed to be concentrating hard. Waddell was amazed there wasn’t smoke belching out the man’s ears. “Nah, it’s all hazy.”
Waddell cut in. “Are you sure it was a woman you were meeting who did this to you? You don’t keep very good company, do you, Paul? There’s plenty of folk who’d enjoy teaching you a lesson.”
Conlan scowled, which made him look even uglier. “Nah. I don’t know if it was her, but who else would do that to me? Got to be some crazy bitch.”
Waddell had checked the reports. Conlan had been accused of sexual assault before, but both victims had dropped the charges. Waddell was a firm believer that when someone was accused of something twice, there were almost always more victims out there. They’d need to dig into the files to see what they could come up with. It would make sense that one of the women he was accused of assaulting had done this to him. Or maybe their husband or boyfriend had in an act of revenge.
He tried to hide the derision in his voice. “Okay, you know the drill, Paul. We need a description of this woman and details of how and where you met her.”
Conlan went red in the face. “Alison. That little cow, Alison. She was a friend of hers. She must have been behind this.”
“Who’s Alison?”
“My bird,” Conlan said.
They didn’t get much more out of him. He was too busy moaning about police harassment and his girlfriend knifing him in the back—apparently she hadn’t been in to visit him. The description Conlan gave of the mystery woman could fit thousands of women in the city, including Nancy Kerr—if she’d made a good job of disguising herself.
Nobody in the bar where he’d met the woman could remember her. They told them to check back at night because the new barmaid was scheduled to work a shift then.
Conlan’s home was their next port of call. It was empty. His missus must have seen sense and bolted like Conlan said; all that was left was a child’s chute in the garden and a football.
Good luck to her, Waddell thought. She was better off without the likes of Paul Conlan in her life.
Chapter 23
Classy is not a word anyone would ever apply to the lap-dance bar. Located in a seedy city-center backstreet, you couldn’t miss the joint. And, if you did, there was a neon sign with the words The Dollhouse emblazoned across it. If you still weren’t sure you had the right place, in the window was a flashing sign that said, “Girls, Girls, Girls,” in case anyone was in any doubt that this place was full of girls.
There are two bouncers at the door talking to a very vocal stag-night party when I get there. At the head of the pack is a man who is naked but for a loin cloth. At his side is the ugliest Cinderella I’ve ever
seen.
My eyes are drawn to them at first, but then I see the tall figure of Shaun Yates. I’ve no doubt it’s him. I’ll never forget those cruel eyes. They seemed to bore their way into me as he raped me. Dead eyes for a dead heart.
Once the stag party was escorted inside by a leggy blonde dressed in a cheerleader’s outfit, I rush over to Yates with a panicked expression on my face. I’ve dabbed my eye makeup with water so he’ll think I’ve been crying.
He eyes me up and down.
“Sorry, love,” he says, “nice tits, but we’re no looking for any more tarts. You’re a bit long in the tooth anyway. What are you—twenty-nine, thirty?”
He snorts at his own joke, and the boy-man standing beside him joins in.
It takes all my self-control not to grab a hold of him and grind his smug mush into the ground until his eye vessels popped like balloons. Thanks to that remark, any trepidation I thought I’d have when I saw him is gone, replaced by simmering rage.
“Are you Shaun Yates?” It’s a struggle to keep my voice level.
“Who wants to know?” He doesn’t speak; he growls. For anyone who thought cavemen had been consigned to prehistoric times, he was proof they hadn’t died out.
“Paul. Paul Conlan sent me.” I’m breathless. “He said you were a friend of his. He’s in trouble. He needs your help.”
The sneer vanishes. “Oh, aye. What kind of bother has he got himself into now, then?”
Casting a nervous glance behind me, I move in closer to Yates so I’m standing between him and his pal. The revolting stench of his aftershave makes me want to take several steps back; he must have taken a bath in the stuff and drunk it. The more repugnant the man, the more they seem to splash the stuff on.
“Paul wouldn’t tell me. He said something about some urgent job needing done and needing your help. He says there’s good money in it.”
Money was the magic word.
Hell To Pay (Crime Files Book 1) Page 7
