‘Do you think it was like a shared flat for some working girls? Or do you think your friend actually stayed there?’
Kenny considered how tidy the place had been. How it had been missing the clutter that people bring into their lives. He offered, ‘Shared.’
‘Now, having heard about the girls’ working life, that would be my guess too.’ He paused and turned to face Kenny. ‘So where is she?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Kenny. This girl could be a sole witness to a murder or even the murderer herself.’
Kenny snorted.
‘Where is she?’
‘I swear to God,’ Kenny said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve been calling her...’
‘Did you have an appointment with your friend?’
‘No.’
‘How did you know to come over here? And don’t tell me you were in the area.’
Kenny paused. Spoke. ‘I was in the area?’ He needed a little time while he tried to organise his thoughts. Ray was too smart. He needed his help, but just how much should he tell him?
‘I don’t fuck about when it’s murder, Kenny. You’ve got to tell me everything you know and tell me now.’
‘My friend’s name is Alexis Bouvoir, she’s Swiss-Italian...’
‘Real name or stage name?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ Kenny shrugged. ‘It’s all I’ve ever known her by. Never even thought for a minute it could be a false name.’ And that is why, he added silently, I’m not a cop. ‘She called me this afternoon. I had four missed calls from her...’
‘We’ll need her phone number and access to any messages.’
‘I can do that,’ said Kenny while wondering how he could keep his name out of this investigation. ‘I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign to get a hold of my phone records.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
‘Let me get this from the top,’ Ray began. ‘Working girls sharing a flat for business purposes. Some Mr Big wants them to work for him. Your friend reneges on the deal, or refuses to make a deal in the first place. She comes to you... and the next thing one of her friends winds up with her throat cut.’
‘All of the above.’
‘Sounds like a severe warning. Was your... was Alexis there when it happened?’
‘Not sure, but judging by her distress over the phone she is both aware of the death and aware of... the violence involved.’
More silence.
Ray spoke first. ‘You never get used to it – violent death. Some guys try to see the body like a slab of meat. It just...’ He paused, working his jaw and then sighed for what felt to Kenny like a minute. It was if all his worries about the world were leaving him in a long, dark exhalation. ‘It’s like... it’s like...’
‘Hey.’ Kenny gripped his shoulder and gave him a little shake. What the fuck he was doing? He had no idea but he hoped it suggested at least an offer of support.
‘The poor girl,’ Ray said. ‘She looked so young. Nobody should die like that. Regardless of their occupation. At times like these I’m ashamed of my gender. It’s like we’re at war...’ His face was twisted, wreathed in shadow. ‘We… men… are in a forever war and women and children are nothing but collateral damage.’
22
‘Hey cuz, how’s it hangin’?’
‘What the fuck do you want, Ian?’ snapped Kenny while he negotiated a roundabout with his mobile trapped between his ear and his shoulder. When people pulled him up on this habit, his answer was that Bluetooth headsets made you look like a wanker and he’d rather pay the fine thankyouverymuch.
‘You fuckin’ phoned me, mate,’ replied Ian.
‘Oh,’ said Kenny, remembering. ‘So I did. Sorry, buddy.’
‘Aye, so you should be...’ Ian tailed off. ‘You in the car? You’re not hands-free, are you? Don’t come crying to me when you break your back in a car crash, mate.’
‘Why don’t I save us both the hassle and hang up then, eh?’
‘Well, I’d certainly feel better about it,’ Ian said.
‘Fuck off, Ian. For a dope-head you’re very law-abiding all of a–’
‘Hanging up, Kenny. Catch you later, bye.’
The phone went dead. ‘Bastard.’ He picked it from his shoulder and ended the call. The prick had a point, he supposed. He’d thought for a second the call had been Alexis.
Still no word from her.
How must she be feeling? She’d be in a state.
He was working himself into a frenzy. Where the fuck was she? If he had a ‘normal’ girlfriend, the most he would ‘normally’ have to worry about was her getting lost between the hairdresser and the nail salon. This is what happens when you get in tow with a working girl, O’Neill. There is a downside to that uncomplicated sex thing.
His sat-nav announced, ‘You have arrived.’ He was home.
He parked and wondered how he had made it home without causing a ten-car pile-up on the Clydeside Expressway. He could barely remember the last twenty minutes’ driving.
A young couple walked past the controlled entrance to the foyer of his building. They were a typical young Glasgow couple living in this part of the city. Collar to toe in designer gear. Surprisingly for any part of the city, they were both stick-thin. Give them time, Kenny thought. Her hair was brown and straightened to a hair-advert sheen. His head was shaved and his face looked like he’d glued some iron fillings on to it.
They had been arguing. The man was staring ahead of him, giving nothing back while she tried her best to puncture his eardrums with her voice.
Kenny got out of his car and locked it with his remote. As he walked past them the woman was completely uncaring of his presence and continued to shout.
‘You’re a liar, Davie. I saw you looking at that woman. Your eyes were locked onto her tits, Davie.’
Davie had clearly given up trying to defend himself and sought release in a Zen-like countenance and a pace that was carefully judged to give her a more than a little trouble in her high heels.
Inside his flat, Kenny made straight for the espresso pot. Coffee made, he took a seat on his sofa, picked up the TV remote and aimlessly clicked through some channels.
He didn’t want to watch celebrities, singing, dancing, dancing on ice, birdwatching, pretending to be down-and-outs or pretending to have a life so he switched it back off. He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the sofa. He looked around himself at his flat that managed to be both clean and untidy at the same time. Several times each day he told himself he should take more care of his home. Several times a day he told himself to get real. Some boys’ toys, a sofa, a bed, kitchen and toilet – what more did he need? Every now and again he’d buy some flowers from a supermarket and put them on display. After a couple of months he’d notice they’d dried out to husks and should be replaced.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees. Where the hell was Alexis and what the fuck was going on?
He thought about the dead girl and what McBain told him about her death. Her throat had been cut. It takes a particular kind of killer to do something like that. If it was a professional job, a silencer and a shot to the brain would have done the job. This was a man who enjoyed his work.
Kenny took a sip from his espresso. He wondered if it was the guy in the Toyota. He tried to bring his image to mind and couldn’t. He could state colouring, approximate height and build, but his facial features were a blur.
Toyota man had raped Alexis twice now. He had no evidence to suggest both events had been carried out by the same man, but something told him this was the case. The first time was his ‘job’. The second time, no message was delivered. If Alexis hadn’t jokingly called Kenny an animal or if he had just got ready for breakfast after his shower, neither of them would have realised that anything untoward had happened.
The man had a taste for Alexis, Kenny thought. The visit to the hotel room was for his own sick pleasure: nothing to do with his work. He was messing with them both. And if this was the same guy who murdered the girl in the flat, he was someone to be very wary of.
Kenny tried to picture him again. He shook his head with frustration. It was like trying to catch your reflection on a plate of brushed steel. Enough was showing to suggest a face, but not enough detail to indicate who the face belonged to.
And he’d spoken to the evil fucker. If only he’d known. Kenny clenched a fist. He knew fighters and in retrospect this man was definitely a fighter, but he could take him. Easy.
He stood up, walked through to the toilet for a piss. When he was mid-stream he heard his mobile phone ring. He dribbled down his trouser leg as he rushed to finish and zip himself up.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Izzat Kenny O’Neill?’
Kenny couldn’t recognise the voice.
‘Aye. Who’s this?’
‘It’s’ – cough – ‘Mark Donaldson. You told my brother Calum he should call you when he was looking for some work.’
Kenny screwed his forehead up in thought. Mark? Calum?
‘We’re the’ – cough – ‘road-ragers you came across... you crocked my brother’s knee.’
‘Oh. Right. How is the knee?’
‘Aye, no bad, mate,’ said Mark, becoming more confident. ‘Turns out it was just badly bruised. The ligament–’
‘I told Calum to call me.’
‘Well... I thought that... he’s the quiet one and–’
‘I’ve got your number now, Mark. So if I have anything, I’ll get in touch, awright?’
‘Yeah, that’s cool, Kenny, cos we can do anything you need. Bouncer–’
‘Hanging up now, Mark.’
‘Right. Okay. Bye.’
Despite himself, Kenny realised a grin was stretching his face. Mark could be annoying but he liked his energy.
He was about to put the phone in his pocket when a ping signalled the arrival of a text. Alexis. His stomach twisted and he read the message. It was a short series of numbers and letters with a space in the middle. Thinking how odd it was, he read it out loud. What the fuck did it mean? He read it out again. It was a postcode.
23
The M74 looped ahead of him in the gloom. Even at this time of night the main route from the west of Scotland down into England was busy. Plenty of buses, trucks and even caravans. Kenny guessed that most of them would be either going on holiday or carrying out some form of work duties. Not too many of them would be on a mission of mercy to save a prostitute.
Something to be said for living a vanilla lifestyle.
He studied each of his mirrors and tried to work out if any of the cars behind him had been there for any part of his journey. He had deliberately varied his speed over the last thirty miles – driving at eighty miles an hour, reducing to half that and speeding up again to see if any cars stayed with him. None had that he could see. He had paid particular attention to Toyotas.
Although, if it was Yaris guy, he’d know that he had been spotted the last time and would change to a different make and model.
You’re a killer for hire and you drive a modest car. Why? You want to blend in; you don’t want to be spotted. Perhaps the thrill of killing is such that material possessions mean next to fuck-all for such a man.
Kenny liked cars, but he didn’t like attracting attention, which was why he went for the Ford. It has all the toys he wants, a ride that’s baby-butt smooth and it blends in.
He looked at the more affordable cars around him. Fords, Vauxhalls, Renaults and so on. Nothing stood out. Nothing shouted, Hey, I’m harbouring a psycho. And nothing looked like it had been on him for any length of time.
He checked his sat-nav. Only twenty-two miles to go. It indicated that he should be leaving at the next exit. Doing as he was told, he was soon on a twisting country road. Sometime later he read a road sign with the legend Welcome to Sanquhar.
He wasn’t sure even how to pronounce it. Where the fuck was he? Even in the fading light he could see that this was, or had been, a prosperous town. Large sandstone houses, a row of shops, then as he stopped at the traffic lights he spotted a sign on a building that said it was the oldest post office in the world; with a date of 1712.
The sat-nav urged him forwards and the road narrowed where a very old building edged into the road. As he waited for the oncoming car to pass, he looked at the architecture of the building. The outside stairway leading to the first floor, and the turret, dredged up a word from Scottish history lessons: Tolbooth. These buildings were centuries old and served multiple purposes – town halls, courts and debtor’s prisons. And, if the locals cared enough to preserve them in modern times, they were often some form of museum.
He drove past and he was pointed to the next on the right. From there, a left and the computer voice he had nicknamed Morag issued welcome news: ‘You have arrived.’ Every time he heard that from Morag, it tickled him. Sometimes he even felt like applauding, but tonight he was too distracted and anxious.
It was dark now and the streetlights stretched ahead of him for a few hundred yards. He had the postcode, but which house? He slowed to a crawl and as the car inched forward he looked into the houses either side of him for inspiration.
A horn tooted behind him. Short, sharp. He pulled over and offered a wave of apology to the driver behind. He was rewarded with a look of fury, a jaw that was working on a mouthful of curses and a hand motion that suggested his hand was never far away from his genitals.
Kenny shook his head. Over-reacting much? ‘Who’s the wanker?’ he mouthed back.
He parked and reached for his phone. No more messages. The signal was weak, He called Alexis. No answer. He sent her a text – I’m here – and waited. No answer.
He got out of the car and locked it. Perhaps he’d now be better off on foot. If Alexis was looking out for him, she’d spot him out of a window and come and get him. He walked along one side of the street and back down the other, getting nothing but a few curtain movements and an indignant stare from one householder. Kenny waved at him, thinking, if you leave your curtains open I’m going to look in. Another hand signal in response. This time it was a vigorous ‘Up Yours’.
The houses all looked alike. Terraced villas built from red sandstone. Low walls hemmed in small gardens in front with shrubs and planters in such abundance that it suggested that everyone was trying to outdo their neighbour. Or going for some Town in Bloom award.
He stood with his hands on his hips. He was getting pissed off and was about to start knocking on doors. But what would he ask everyone? Excuse me, you harbouring a prostitute whose friend has just been murdered?
Back in the car, his phone was showing no bars and there was still no message from Alexis.
He exhaled. Fuck. Where was she? He looked out of his car at the houses around him, praying for inspiration. He looked at the clock on his dashboard. No way could he go knocking on doors at eleven o’clock at night. The only news being delivered at this time would be bad news. People would have heart attacks up and down the postcode and they’d remember him for years to come.
A curtain twitched. Did they make any other movement? In that particular window a large red candle warmed the sill; its flame dancing to the tune of the house’s internal breeze.
Who puts a large red candle in their window with the curtains all but shut behind it?
Kenny slapped his forehead. What an idiot. He was at the door double-quick. He knocked and was all but pulled through it before the sound reached his ear.
‘I thought you were going to be sat in that car all night,’ a woman’s voice whispered in the dark of the hallway. She had a Scottish accent.
‘Where’s Alexis?’
‘Ssshh,’ he was told. ‘In he
re.’ A door was pushed open.
His senses told him he was in no danger so he walked through the door into a living room. It held the standard sofa, two armchairs and TV, along with a running motif of teddy bears. They were in cloth, china and in pictures everywhere his eyes moved.
‘Have a seat,’ he was told, so, swallowing his impatience, he moved to an armchair and sat down and looked at the person who’d brought him in to their home.
His immediate impression was: short, with hair, and enough attitude for a family of neds. Even in her heels she would be lucky if she hit five feet. And the way she was standing before him with her hands on her hips, Kenny was sure she was more than a match for him verbally.
Her face was lined but lively – late-fifties or early-sixties? – and surrounded by a mass of black hair – a wig? – that added six inches to her height and reached well past her shoulders. She was dressed like a caricature of a character from an Eighties American soap opera. Shoulder pads, short tight skirt and knee length boots. Everything with a touch of pink.
Was she for real, he wondered, and one look at the focus that pierced him from her heavily made-up eyes told him that she was.
‘Alexis is sleeping,’ she said, arranging herself on the armchair opposite him. ‘She’s been through a lot.’ The way she said those last two words it was like she was blaming Kenny.
‘I’d like to talk to her.’
‘Not a chance, buddy. She needs a good rest before she thinks about what she’s going to do next.’
‘Listen, missus, I appreciate you helping her out and everything, but I’ve driven a long way to talk to her and that’s what I’m going to do.’ Kenny stood up.
‘Oh, sit on your arse. You don’t intimidate me.’
‘Look...’
‘Sit.’
‘But...’
She pointed to the chair.
He sat down.
‘Excellent.’ Her smile was genuine. ‘So you’ll be Kenny.’
‘Aye,’ he replied. He didn’t know what to make of her; he’d never met anyone quite so unaffected by him. There was no bluster, no hidden tremble, nothing. He was a bug; she was the shoe. ‘And you are?’
Beyond the Rage Page 12
