by Tony Black
As she dragged herself onto her knees, Melanie felt her stomach turn over, then a strange sensation like a wave pressing on her knocked her down again. Her head landed on the carpet and her eyes glazed for a second, but she was still conscious enough to hear McArdle laughing at her. She understood now he had kicked her in the back; as he stood looming over her she wondered what he would do next.
‘That you learned your lesson, is it?’ he said.
Melanie tried to speak, but her mouth felt numb, her lips were too swollen.
McArdle stepped over her, went to sit on the sofa. He didn’t look at her as she tried to rise again. It took some effort. Her head was heavy on her shoulders, much heavier than usual, and she thought she might fall again but she got to her knees and dragged herself onto the arm of the sofa, pushed herself up. On her feet she stood for a moment and watched McArdle point the remote control at the television. He found the news, put down the controller and started to rub at his reddened knuckles.
‘What are you looking at?’ he said. ‘If you’re up now you can go and get me a beer from the fridge.’
Melanie looked at him, her face burning and throbbing where he had hit her – she wanted to scream at him. But she didn’t have the strength. She felt more hate towards him than she ever had as she turned for the kitchen, dragging her battered body as though she was beginning a slow death march.
At the sink, Melanie ran the cold-water tap and tried to catch enough in her open palm to wet her lips. Her hands were already bloodied from rubbing her eyes and as she ran them under the tap the water she collected took on a pinkish hue. She stared at the cold liquid and splashed some on her face. It stung. The second attempt stung a little less but she could now feel the swelling under the skin. The thought of her battered features made her start to cry but she steadied herself and vowed not to be overcome by her emotions; she needed to be stronger if she was going to protect the child.
Melanie made her way back from the fridge with McArdle’s Carlsberg. She heard a roar from the living room. In panic, she increased her pace; as she reached the door she saw her husband sitting on the edge of the sofa with his head in his hands. She moved into the space between the now-sleeping baby and her husband and turned herself towards the screen.
There was a young reporter talking about a shooting in the centre of Edinburgh, by the Water of Leith. Two drug addicts, one a known prostitute and the other a career criminal, had been targeted in a professional hit.
The reporter stated: ‘Police were already looking to interview Barry Tierney, of Muirhouse, in connection with missing Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald. The case took a strange twist when the bodies of Tierney and long-term partner Vee Durrant were found in the early hours of this morning.’
The camera panned away from the reporter and showed police officers combing a small wooded area beside the water banks. Melanie turned to McArdle – he was shaking his head in his hands, gripping the skin on his neck so tight white crescents showed in the red flesh.
The reporter continued: ‘Tierney was spotted earlier on CCTV cameras at the city’s bus station with Carly Donald and her young baby daughter, Beth. After an appeal on the Six O’Clock News Tierney was identified, but underworld figures got to him before the police and both he and Durrant died in what officers have described as a professional killing.’
McArdle rose from the sofa. ‘This is out of fucking order!’
‘What is it?’ said Melanie.
He looked at her, snatched the can from her hand and pointed at her nose. ‘Keep that out!’
Melanie felt her pulse quicken as McArdle threatened her. She took a glance back at the baby and slowly edged towards the kitchen door. As she stood inside the doorway, she could still see her husband, his face contorted and reddened as the news item continued.
The reporter was now introducing a man from the church; Melanie leaned forward to glance at the screen and saw that the minister was seated behind a table with police officers. He was reading from a piece of paper: ‘My wife and I cannot possibly describe the devastation we feel at the loss of our beloved daughter, Carly. She was a beautiful young girl, kind and well loved by all those who knew her. Nothing will ever fill the void in our hearts that has been created by her passing but we beg of you, if you know something that can help the police in their inquiries, to please, please get in touch. Our granddaughter Beth went missing the day Carly left our home and hasn’t been seen since. The police have assured us that they are doing all they can but they cannot be everywhere at once and we need the help of you all to find Beth. My wife and I are desperately worried for our granddaughter now. The police have reason to believe she may have been in the hands of the people who were shot this morning and I would again urge anyone with any information, however insignificant, to please, please get in touch.’
McArdle was out of his seat, shaking a fist at the screen. He took a sup from his can then threw it aside. Melanie edged further into the kitchen as he ranted. She had seen him angry before; she had seen him rage and hit out but this was different. He looked desperate, like a cornered animal. Melanie felt fearful. She retreated towards the kitchen table and opened the drawer; as she stared into it her hand trembled but she managed to pick up a long knife. It suddenly went from being a familiar item she had often used without a thought to something that had the potential to change everything she had come to accept in her life. She held the haft close to her thigh and then turned it behind her back as she walked towards the open door.
When she entered the living room, the minister had gone from the television screen and a police officer was talking to the reporter. ‘We are now extremely concerned as to the fate of young Beth,’ he said. ‘We know these early hours and days are extremely important in an investigation such as this and we need to harness all the support of the public that we can get.’
The reporter asked, ‘What do you think has become of the baby?’
‘I’m not prepared to speculate. All I will say is this: if you have any suspicions, however tenuous, you must call the police right away.’
McArdle spat out, lashed at the television. He pushed the off switch and the screen fizzed but it didn’t satisfy him. He swung an arm and brought it from its cradle on the wall. The television smashed on the floor; the noise woke the child.
‘And you can shut the fuck up!’ McArdle turned for the child, roared again: ‘I said shut the fuck up!’
As he went to move forward, Melanie stood in front of him.
‘What’s going on?’ she said.
‘You can fuck off too.’
‘It’s their baby, isn’t it?’ She looked towards the screaming child. ‘She’s the one off the television, isn’t she?’
McArdle drew fists. His face creased as he yelled, ‘Who are you to ask me anything?’
He stepped forward, put out a hand to grab her throat. Melanie swung with the knife and caught him near the elbow. A red arc of blood escaped as he flinched back and held his arm.
‘You fucking bitch!’ McArdle looked at her, his eyes wide, his brows pushing on his hairline. ‘Give me that fucking knife.’
Melanie swung out again – this time she caught the open palm of his other hand. He screamed out as blood trailed down his fingers and onto the white carpet. He leaned over for a moment and tucked his hand under his arm. As he did so Melanie gripped the knife in both hands and raised it over her head. She brought it down quickly, aiming for the space between his shoulder blades. She could feel the force of her body weight getting behind the falling blade. Her hands held tight; there was no doubt in her mind she wanted to kill him. She didn’t know whether it was because she was too slow, or too weak after her beating, but she seemed to have given too much of her intention away with her movements and McArdle turned with just enough time to avoid the blade. It ripped through his shirt and embedded itself deep in his right arm.
He yelled out, screaming in pain.
Melanie watched as McArdle staggered away. He
knocked a picture off the wall then collided with the edge of a small cabinet, tipping a table lamp to the ground.
‘You bitch! Look what you’ve done.’ He had his hand on the knife’s handle; blood covered his shirt and the top of his jeans.
Melanie stared, then stepped back towards the screaming baby. She knew she had blown her chance. She tried to think what to do next. She looked at the bawling child and thought about picking her up and running but McArdle was between her and the door. He pulled at the knife, removed it. The blade dripped with blood. He turned to her, stared with bulging eyes. ‘You fucking bitch!’
Melanie ran for the kitchen. As she went she heard McArdle take off behind her. She reached the table in enough time to yank open the drawer. There were more knives than she could remember; she put in her hands and tried to grab one but her fingers felt numb to the touch. The knives rattled noisily as she tried to pick one up.
‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’ McArdle roared as he entered the kitchen. Melanie turned to face him, saw the knife in his hand, blood still dripping from it onto the floor. His mad wide eyes burned into her; she didn’t recognise him at all now – he was crazed – he was like someone she was seeing for the first time. As he drew closer he seemed to grow in size. She felt the impossibility of any challenge she could make and turned away to run.
The last thing Melanie McArdle heard at that moment was her own screams, as her husband sank the knife into her back. The length of it passed clean through her. She toppled over, and for a second or two the blade showed as she lowered her head towards her stomach, and fell onto the hard, cold floor.
Chapter 42
DI ROB BRENNAN WAS HALFWAY down Leith Walk when he spotted the two dogs eyeing each other. They went nose to nose, tails up. For a brief instant it looked like war. Then one of the dogs lowered ears and conceded its inferiority to the dark cross straining on its lead. Brennan watched the small tan terrier drop its tail next, allow the larger animal to dominate it completely. As he took them in, the detective wondered how different people were to dogs. They were both all about strutting, posturing. As he got closer he watched the dogs’ owners nodding and greeting each other – one leaned out a hand and brayed loudly as the other stood still. How different indeed? He recalled some advice from Wullie, back in the early days. A pub fight was never the place for police to go charging in – you were always better sending in a couple of WPCs. His theory was that the presence of females always brought in some civility: ‘It’s just the same with dogs, Robbie . . . See dogs fighting, throw in a bitch; that’ll separate them.’
As Brennan approached the black graffiti-covered door he wondered how Wullie would receive him. It had been a long time; too long, perhaps. But what were you supposed to do? It seemed like an intrusion now that Wullie had left the force. When they had worked together, it had been inconceivable to Brennan that there would come a day when he wouldn’t see Wullie, but now the days had stretched into weeks, months even, and he felt guilty to be calling on him now. He needed his help, though. Brennan knew there were people in his situation who would be too proud to ask for help, but he was too big for that. Wullie was always the man with the answers; if Brennan was missing something, however small, Wullie would spot it.
He pressed the doorbell and retreated from the step. There was no response. He wondered should he give it another minute or try again right away. An old man across the street left a newsagent’s and started to rub at a scratch card with a coin. Within a few seconds his face went from a barely contained optimism to showing a lifetime’s disappointment; he let the card flutter to the ground.
‘Hello?’ It was Wullie.
‘It’s Rob.’
‘Rob?’ He sounded incredulous – had it really been that long? ‘Come away in, son.’
The buzzer sprang the lock on the door. Brennan entered.
The steps were grey and dank, like all Edinburgh stairwells. A mishmash of bikes cluttered the landing alongside assorted rubbish. There was a lingering smell of urine and only a few bulbs fizzed on the wall lights. How did people live like this? thought Brennan. At what stage did everyone in this part of the country settle for a one-or two-bedroom rat-hole shared with strangers who never spoke to you? This was tenement living – for most, it was all the city offered, so what could you do? Half a million for a three-bedroom house wasn’t an option for them.
As Brennan reached the second floor he saw Wullie’s door sat open, but there was no sign of the man. He knocked. ‘Hello, Wullie.’
‘Come away in.’ His voice sounded frail, tired. As Brennan entered the small flat he was immediately taken by the lack of air. The place seemed almost too stuffy to accommodate life. He walked down the hall, watching the dust dance in a shard of light, then pushed open the living-room door. There was a small kitchen at one end, pots and carry-out tins piled high. On the other side of the room Wullie crouched over on an old armchair. He wore a white vest and grey slacks; a pair of black braces sat over the vest. He seemed to have put on some weight but all of it sat in a small paunch above his waistband. ‘Hello, Robbie.’
Brennan smiled. Though his heart seemed to be galloping, he held himself in check. ‘You look well, sir.’
‘Fuck off with the “sir” shite.’
Brennan nodded. Made for a seat on the other side of the small living room. ‘How are you keeping?’
Wullie started a hacking cough, rubbed at his chest. Brennan noticed how defined his shoulders still looked – the rest of him hadn’t kept up. ‘I’m as rough as aul’ guts,’ he said, ‘but thanks for asking.’
Brennan knew Wullie had lost his wife and had a strained relationship with his two children but he didn’t want to ask about personal matters; even if the old man was doing it hard, on his own, he’d settle for that in front of sympathy from his peers any day. ‘Well, there’s none of us getting any younger’ – he tapped his stomach – ‘or fitter.’
Wullie let out a howl: ‘Ha, you’ve a way to catch me yet, pal!’
Brennan brought out the last of his Marlboro pack, showed it to Wullie. ‘Mind?’
‘Fire away.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘I’d offer you a cup of something but I’ve nothing in.’
‘It’s okay. Spend enough time drinking tea as it is.’
Wullie took a cigarette from the proffered pack, sparked up, said, ‘I heard you’d had a bit of a break from duty.’
Brennan had been starting to settle but the remark jolted him. ‘I, er, had some leave after my brother’s death.’
Wullie took a deep drag on the cigarette. ‘I heard about that – nasty business . . . I’m sorry.’
‘No need.’
Wullie tapped the filter with his thumb. ‘Have they made any progress?’
Brennan tutted. ‘Ian Lauder on the case? You joking me?’
‘Not improving with age, then?’
Sneers. ‘Like a fine wine, you mean? I don’t think so.’
Wullie smiled. His face creased with myriad lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes and covered almost every inch of his skin. His face seemed to have darkened since the last time Brennan had seen him, but his hair had lightened, become greyer. Even the stubble on his chin poked through in white spikes. The sight of him made Brennan suddenly conscious of the passage of time. He had never been aware of Wullie ageing in the job; even when he picked up the sobriquet Auld Wullie, it had passed him by. But now he was an old man. Brennan wondered if he had done the right thing coming to see him. Would he want to hear about what was going on out there now? Would he care? Was he even up to it? As Brennan toyed with these thoughts his mind was quickly made up for him.
‘So, Rob, what can I do for you?’
Brennan reached out, flicked ash into the tray on the mantel. ‘I’m working a case, tough one.’
‘I saw you on the news the other night.’
Brennan grinned. ‘Fame at last.’
Wullie sat forward. ‘That’s some job you have on your hands. Very dirty b
usiness indeed . . . Makes me glad I’m out of it.’
‘Do you mean that?’
A laugh: ‘Fuck no!’
Brennan creased out a wry smile. ‘I need your help.’
Wullie leaned back, squared his shoulders. ‘Don’t know I can be much good to you . . .’ He waved hands over his midriff. ‘You seen the kip of me?’
‘There’s very little coming together on this one, Wullie. There’s a lot going on but nothing slotting into place.’
The old man reclined further in his chair. ‘Go on.’
Brennan recounted the main points of the investigation; he left nothing out that he thought could be of any use. As he spoke, Wullie seemed thoughtful. Rubbing at his chin once in a while and allowing his fingertips to wander through the hair on the sides of his head. He didn’t interrupt, but Brennan knew there were going to be questions. When he was finished speaking he stood up and stretched his legs in front of the mantelpiece. Wullie looked down towards the window, out into the street. He seemed about to speak and then he stopped himself, flagged Brennan to sit again.
‘What is it?’
‘This Sproul character . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t link him to anyone in Edinburgh?’
Brennan curled his toes in his shoes. ‘He was Paisley.’
‘No connections down this way?’
‘None we’ve turned up.’
Wullie’s eyes rolled. ‘It’s probably nothing, then.’
‘What were you thinking?’
Wullie crossed his fingers over his stomach. ‘There’s a child missing; he was a beast.’
Brennan spoke: ‘It was his child, I’m almost certain of it.’
Wullie huffed, ‘Since when did that fucking bother them?’
‘Even if he was connected to Tierney – say they did some time together – that doesn’t help me when the bastard’s dead and nobody else is talking about him.’
‘Maybe his connection wasn’t Tierney, then.’
Brennan touched the crease of his trouser, brought it into a tent point. ‘Or maybe he was . . . but Tierney was a middle man.’
