by Owen Mullen
Boyle sensed her fatigue and taunted her. ‘You’re wasting your time!’
Geddes called, ‘Mackenzie! Mackenzie! Hold on!’
Hearing the detective’s voice gave her strength. She dug deep, whispering to herself. ‘Get a grip or you’ll die here and he’ll have won.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s not that high. C’mon, you can do this. Boyle’s the danger. If you fall you might break something, but at least you’ll be alive.’
Slowly, carefully, she got to her feet and climbed with her tormentor’s mocking laughter in her ears. What she needed to do was clear: stay ahead of this lunatic until Andrew got to her. Boyle heard Geddes too and quickened his ascent, jumping from one rock to another, determined to reach her before the policeman got to him. She backed away along the top of an uneven wall no more than a foot wide, trying not to look down, inching forward, hardly able to breathe, searching for something to hold on to and finding nothing. The dizziness came back. Mackenzie swayed, fell to her knees and spread herself on the stone, cool and comforting against her skin.
Boyle played on her terror. ‘Not so sure of yourself now, are you? Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.’
Geddes shouted, ‘Mackenzie, I’m coming! Boyle, you bastard! Give it up! You can’t get away!’
Boyle ignored him and followed her, arms outstretched, balancing like a circus performer, gripping the knife. She turned away, shaking with fear. He explained his fractured logic. ‘Wasn’t going to bother with the copper. Letting him cry over you would’ve been enough, but since he’s here…’ Boyle cocked his head to the side, pointing an admonishing finger at her. ‘Kirsty wasn’t your business. Should’ve left her to me. That’s the trouble with your kind, you think you’re better than the rest of us. Arrogant bastards.’
Mackenzie pushed herself upright, lost her footing and was on her knees again. Sure she was going to fall, she dug her nails into the sandstone to stop herself from going over. Boyle moved closer, a dull light glinting off the blade in his hand.
Geddes shouted, ‘Give it up! It’s finished!’ He’d climbed the fallen stones and was fifteen feet away. Suddenly, the roles were reversed.
Boyle sneered defiance over his shoulder. ‘It’s your woman out here, not mine. I’ll decide when it’s finished, Mr Policeman.’
He lunged at Mackenzie. She screamed and stumbled. The blade cut her neck – he’d almost had her. She looked at Andrew, her eyes filled with fear and despair. Geddes saw blood coming from a wound on her neck and edged out until the three of them were on the wall. He ignored Malkie Boyle and spoke to Mackenzie. ‘Look at me. The police are on their way. Keep calm.’
Boyle’s eyes blazed hatred at Mackenzie. Another step brought him close enough to try again. Geddes guessed what he would do, picked up a brick and fired it at him. It thudded into his back, making him lose balance. Flailing, he dropped the knife. His fingers tugged Mackenzie’s sleeve in an attempt to take her with him. She screamed again. Geddes shouted, ‘Not today, you bastard,’ and kicked him off the wall onto the sandstone rocks below.
Andrew held out his hand. ‘Never mind him. Keep your eyes on me. Only on me and it’ll be okay.’
The temptation to look down was almost too powerful to resist. He helped her to her feet and spoke, his tone soft, gently directing her to do exactly as he said. ‘Me. Only at me. One foot in front of the other. Not a step until it feels right. Don’t rush, there’s no hurry. I’m here. I’ve got you.’
Mackenzie did as she was told.
On the ground, Boyle was running towards the woods – he was getting away. Geddes could do nothing until he got Mackenzie safe.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
After what felt like a long time yet had, in reality, been minutes, she was trembling in his arms. He took her hand and picked his way down. She held on to him, shaken but safe. At the bottom, Juliette was waiting, barking excitedly. Mackenzie lifted her. ‘I’m all right, girl. I’m okay.’
Geddes said, ‘You stay here. Sylvia will come to you.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘After Boyle.’
It hurt like a bastard. Boyle had the police siren ringing in his ears as he looked over his shoulder to see the copper leading his bitch along the wall. Malkie felt as if a bus had run over him and blood ran from a gash on his head into his eyes. Getting caught would mean decades in a maximum-security prison. With a superhuman effort, he gritted his teeth, dragged himself through the railing and into the woods. He needed to get to the car before the police could double back.
Geddes raised his warrant card so the policemen running towards him could see it. He pointed to where the cars were parked and spoke to the senior officer, a sergeant he’d worked with called O’Brien.
‘Malkie Boyle. Did you get him?’
‘No, sir. No-one came past us.’
‘Right, get a call out. I want everybody looking for this bastard. And get this woman home safely. Stay with her until you get the all-clear.’
In the car’s rear-view mirror, Malkie saw more of the copper’s pals arriving. The sorry fuckers didn’t even look at him. He wasn’t used to losing. He’d lost this one all right and he’d had to get away. As soon as he’d done the old man and got his readies, he’d be out of Glasgow – who knows? – maybe when things had quietened down he could come back and take care of the bitch. Yeah, that was a plan.
The truth was hard to accept. But, at some time or another, it had to be faced because Geddes needed to be able to look himself in the mirror without wanting to smash his fist against the glass. They’d fucked up. Right from the start. No excuses.
He drove to the city, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the mobile to his ear. Geddes needed information and he needed it now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when somebody could be bothered to shift their lazy arse and get it for him. He called Stewart Street. ‘Who’s got the Kirsty McBride file right now?’
‘Sir?’
Geddes exploded. ‘It’s not a fucking quiz! Find out who has the file. Somebody’s been hiding Boyle for months. Somebody in Glasgow – a mate, a friend, a relation. Tell them to look for the connection and get back to me. Pronto.’
The DI followed the sweep of the M80 past the exit for Kirkintilloch and joined the M74 at Balornock.
Within minutes, his mobile rang.
Dennis Jamieson didn’t hide the dislike in his voice. ‘They tell me you’re looking for a link between Boyle and the mystery person keeping him below the radar. I’d like to know what the fuck it’s got to do with you. I seem to remember you were removed from the case because you weren’t up to it. However, if you have information to pass on, of course–’
‘I’ll give you information, Jamieson. You’re a wanker. A useless fucking wanker. Malkie Boyle didn’t go to London. He didn’t go anywhere, he’s in Glasgow. You’ve had your shot. Now it’s my turn. I want that file and I want it now.’
‘We went over it with a fine-tooth comb for weeks before we gave up. I assure you there’s nothing in there.’
His self-satisfied confidence made Geddes want to tear Jamieson’s head off his shoulders. A girl and an old man had been brutally murdered, yet he was acting as if it was a game between them. Geddes steadied before he replied. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes. That file better be on my desk.’
43
Geddes turned off the motorway and raced through two sets of traffic lights, narrowly avoiding a collision with a van; the driver saw him coming and reacted fast, braking in time to avoid an accident. The DI hardly noticed – his focus was absolute.
Outside Stewart Street he pulled to a screeching halt and dived out of the car, leaving the smell of burning rubber in the air.
Officers watched him run to his office – word of his angry phone call had got round. Everyone knew about the animosity between the DIs. They also knew what Geddes would find on the other side of the door.
His curse echoed down the corridor. ‘You bastard, Jamieson!’
‘To hell with my career. Get out of my way, Kevin.’
Turnbull nodded and let him pass. When Geddes was on the rampage, the best thing was to let him get on with it. He took the stairs, two at a time, and burst into the room he’d been warned not to enter on the first floor. At a corner desk, Jamieson and Innes leaned over an open manila folder, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened at the neck.
Under his arms, Dennis Jamieson’s shirt was stained with sweat. He raised his head and Geddes saw fear in his eyes. He shouted, ‘Get out of here, Geddes! You aren’t involved, it isn’t your case! And if you have any information, you’d better hand it over.’
A futile attempt at asserting himself – ridiculous in the circumstances.
Geddes grabbed his arms and threw him against the wall. ‘Boyle just tried to murder somebody. If I hadn’t been there he would’ve succeeded, while you’re doing what you’ve been doing for months – fuck all! Now let me see the file.’
‘It’s a waste of time. We’ve been over it and over it. There’s noth–’
Geddes pushed him away. ‘Give it to me.’
Innes stepped back: this wasn’t his fight; this was personal. Geddes flicked through one page after another, speed-reading, realising Jamieson had told the truth: the link he was looking for wasn’t there.
He started at the beginning and went through it again. ‘It has to be here. It has to be.’
Failure hadn’t affected Jamieson’s confidence. ‘It isn’t, smart arse. Otherwise, we’d have found it.’
Geddes muttered frantically to himself. ‘Where are you? Where are you, you bastard?’
Jamieson snatched the folder in his thick fingers. ‘We’ve done our job. Nobody can say we haven’t. As for you,’ he smirked, ‘assaulting an officer in front of a witness. Couldn’t have set it up better if I’d wanted to. You’re finished, Geddes. Be lucky to get hired as a security guard.’
Geddes ignored him and spoke to the other detective. ‘What else have you got?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Can’t be. This can’t be all there is.’
Jamieson was at his shoulder, so close he could feel his hot breath on his neck. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Turns out you were wrong. You’re not a better detective than everybody else after all.’
Geddes wasn’t listening. ‘There has to be something.’
Innes said, ‘We left his clothes and other stuff at their old place. Didn’t have much. People like Boyle never do. Private landlord. Probably junked it by now unless he was scared he’d come back for it. Been checked out.’
Geddes seized on it. ‘What’s his number?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Tell him I’ll meet him there.’
Jamieson stood with his arms folded, shaking his head. ‘You’re clutching at straws, man. Should hear yourself. Give it up. Any minute we’ll get a call telling us Boyle’s been seen. He won’t escape this time. Do the decent thing and start clearing your desk.’ He laughed. ‘Leitch is going to love booting you out the door. Did well on that one, didn’t you? Thought you’d learned enough to know you never get on the wrong side of a DCI.’
Innes was already on the phone; he put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Landlord says the place’s been rented but he’ll show you what was left. Give him half an hour.’
Jamieson was enjoying himself. ‘Take more than a hunch and a couple of dirty shirts.’ He turned back to the file on his desk. ‘Fuck off, Geddes. I’ve got an official complaint to write.’
Andrew Geddes was too preoccupied with where Malkie Boyle had been hiding for the last four months to pay attention to the insults. In the car, Jamieson’s threat caught up with him and the truth behind it hit home. Assault was a criminal act. The fact the “victim” was a fellow officer made it a sacking offence. All it would need was Detective Innes to corroborate Dennis Jamieson’s version of events and Geddes would be charged. After that the evidence against him would mount: officers would swear to seeing him arrive agitated and angry; Kevin Turnbull, however reluctantly, would be forced to confirm his unsuccessful attempt at preventing him going to the first floor; a guilty verdict would be inevitable.
Geddes knew nothing good lay down that road – those dark thoughts were for another day; he had enough already. He took the Dennistoun turnoff, then along Duke Street. Traffic was light and he made good time. The East End was very different from the city centre or the West, where expensive properties were the norm and the price of a flat bought a detached house on this side of Glasgow. His eyes darted over the faces on the pavement, ordinary decent men and women going about their business, the kind who’d showed up at Tollcross Cemetery to pay their respects to a murdered girl. These weren’t Boyle’s people – he wasn’t one of them. Never had been and never would be. Yet, somebody who appeared no different from them had protected him and was still protecting him.
The landlord was standing in the car park when Geddes arrived. He got out, locked the car and came towards him. Fox had ginger hair and a ginger pencil moustache. Fox? His parents had had a sense of humour. Close-set eyes and skin the pallor of putty gave him a shifty permanently unwashed look. He crushed one cigarette out, lit another and spat on the ground out of the corner of his mouth. Something amused him. He nodded without a trace of friendliness and didn’t offer to shake hands. Geddes was fine with that.
‘Think that’ll make a difference, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Locking your car. Trust me, if they want in they’ll get in. Take more than that to stop them. The police don’t care.’
Geddes didn’t rise to the criticism and the landlord said, ‘Whatever you’re after, you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘Am I?’
Fox spat on the ground again and started walking. Geddes followed him to a line of garages covered in graffiti. He pointed proudly. ‘Five of these belong to me. Nobody parks in a garage anymore. Most of these punters don’t have a pot to piss in, let alone a car. Use them for storage.’
Geddes could guess what he was storing: boxes with Benson & Hedges, Embassy and Absolut Vodka written on them. Five lock-ups meant five flats. Cigarettes and booze wouldn’t be enough to afford those. Drugs would be involved. And this guy would be his own best customer. He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket like a jailor in a Dickens novel. ‘Wonder why I bother. What’s in here’s not worth stealing.’
‘But you’ve got the stuff the last people left?’
‘Not hers. She took everything when they moved her.’
‘You know about that?’
A sly light appeared in his eyes. He went to spit but changed his mind. ‘No secrets in this dump. Can’t afford them.’
The caustic social commentary went over Geddes’s head; it had taken minutes to dislike the man. Not the fastest he’d come across, but close. Fox was a crook who hadn’t been caught. Probably selling dope and pills to half the tenants, at the same time despising them for the addiction which had put him on the property ladder.
His time would come. Geddes would see it did.
‘Show me what you’ve got.’
Inside was exactly as he imagined: bedclothes and old chairs piled against the ash-coloured breezeblock walls; a sofa that had seen better days; a toddler’s red shoes and a baby walker. “Junk” was too kind a description for this mish-mash. Why keep it?
Fox answered the unasked question. ‘Be surprised what you’ll settle for when you’ve got fuck all.’
He pulled two plastic bins over to Geddes. ‘Help yourself, Detective. Hope you find what you’re looking for, though I doubt it.’
‘Is this it?’
‘That’s everything. My places are furnished, so it was only personal stuff left.’
Geddes emptied the first one onto the cracked top of a glass table. Innes said someone had checked this. Nevertheless Geddes ha
ndled it carefully, searching the pockets, teasing the material apart. Nothing in Boyle’s criminal history suggested he was a junkie, but you could never be sure. There could be a dirty syringe lurking. All it would take was one life-altering prick.
No joy, apart from some old betting-slips.
The second bin had toiletries and a collection of well-used porn magazines. Nothing of value. In the bottom, abandoned and forgotten, he found two birth certificates, some photographs, dull and torn at the edges, and a book – unlike the porn mags, in excellent condition. Geddes flicked through the photographs, willing himself to see what wasn’t there, pausing to examine a print of a man in his early forties with his arm round a girl of thirteen or fourteen, delivering toothy smiles on demand. He could almost hear the person behind the camera say, ‘Cheese.’ The next shot was the same pair in a similar pose on a beach. Then two of a teenager on her own – the grown version, wearing too much make-up. No writing on the back to indicate where or when. In the final shot, a woman held a baby wrapped in a shawl, its small, hairless head, peeking above the covers. She gazed at the child with love in her eyes and Geddes knew it was Malkie Boyle.
His mother couldn’t have imagined the monster she’d spawned.
Geddes lifted the book, allowing the pages to sift through his fingers. The certificate from the school was as pristine as the day it was presented to a fresh-faced schoolgirl – her one achievement in life had come early.
First Prize For English
Hannah Cunningham
June 1983
