Blood & Guts

by Ed James

  Vicky eased the car forward, wary of drawing Dougie McLean away, into a chase. Twenty metres away now and her headlights caught the car. A Skoda, but the light bleached it so much it was hard to tell if it was silver or not.

  The other car was a battered old Vectra.

  Vicky’s heart fluttered – another police pool car, the one with the buggered clutch that got stuck halfway up that no amount of oil or moaning could get fully lubricated.

  Her lights caught Considine standing guard by the car, except that his torch was scanning up and down the monument, reading the names of the war dead.

  Vicky pulled up, blocking the way and leaving the engine running, and got out of the car, easing on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Time and a place for that, Constable.’

  He swung round and caught the light right in Vicky’s eyes.

  ‘Watch!’ She shielded her face, but her eyesight was a big red blur. ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Considine sniffed, then waved the torch back at the monument. ‘Just reading the names. No Considines but a couple of Doddses and a Forrester.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Right. Aye. Just guarding it for you.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see if it’s him first.’ Vicky stepped past him and shone her own torch into the vehicle. A surge of relief climbed out of her stomach.

  McLean was in the front, behind the wheel, fully reclined, phone resting on his chest. Looked like he was sleeping.

  Vicky motioned for Considine to guard the passenger side, then waited as he gave up his reading exercise to do his actual job. A deep breath, then she grabbed her baton and opened the driver door. ‘Evening, sir.’

  The cabin lights came on and McLean jerked forward. His phone shot over to the windscreen and his head hit the sunroof. ‘Ah, you bastard.’

  ‘Douglas McLean?’

  He looked round at her, nodding. ‘Pleasure to meet you, darling.’

  Vicky stood at the door post and grabbed McLean’s wrist, then levered his arm out and back across her hip. The combination of the pivot and McLean’s own bodyweight pulled him right out onto the ground. Vicky continued the movement with the wrist, pointing it straight up, and dug her knee into the small of his back. She snapped handcuffs on his wrist.

  Considine helped him up to standing.

  McLean was tall, at least six foot, and with a rower’s frame. Skinny waist forming a triangle with broad shoulders. A red musketeer moustache over a redder soul patch, covering a real shit-eating grin. And he was swaying like he’d tanned half a bottle of whisky. He frowned. ‘Usually get a lassie’s name before she pins us to the ground, doll.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Vicky Dodds.’

  ‘And what have I done, Vicky?’

  Vicky nodded at Considine. ‘You know the drill.’

  Considine cleared his throat. ‘Douglas McLean, I am arresting you for the crime of rape. You do not have to say anything, but it…’

  Vicky tuned out his monologue as she stepped around the car.

  McLean stood there with a stupid grin on his face, like they were making a huge mistake.

  Back round at the driver’s side and Considine reached a gloved hand for his phone. ‘I’ll have that, thank you very much.’

  ‘What?’ McLean was rubbing his forehead. ‘My phone?’

  ‘Is it?’ Vicky stuck it in a bag, then held it out. ‘Can you confirm this is yours?’

  He looked at it for a few seconds with bleary eyes. ‘Think so. Christ, my head’s fair nipping.’

  ‘Why were you sleeping here, sir?’

  McLean frowned. ‘Search me, like.’

  ‘That’ll happen soon, don’t you worry.’ Vicky caught the blue lights of a squad car piling towards them.

  ‘So. I should thank you for finding my phone.’

  ‘Assuming you ever lost it.’

  Something thumped at the back of the car.

  ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  The uniforms approached them on foot now, a male and female pairing that looked like they could handle whatever Considine let McLean do to him.

  Vicky stopped by the boot and listened hard. What the hell was that sound?

  She ran back to the driver seat and grabbed the keys.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going with them?’

  Vicky hit the open button and got a flash of lights from the car. She snapped out her baton and prodded the boot release button.

  It clunked open.

  A girl lay in the boot, barely able to move, fabric stuffed into her mouth. Eyes wide and staring right at Vicky, like she was pleading with her.

  Vicky dropped her baton and ran her fingers over her wrists and ankles. Plastic cable ties, shit. She shouted over to the others, ‘Have you got a knife?’

  The male officer scuttled off towards the squad car.

  Vicky eased the fabric out of the girl’s mouth. ‘I’m Vicky. I’m a police officer. What’s your name?’

  She was still conscious at least, but battered and bruised. ‘Teresa. My name’s Teresa Ennis. My dad’s a cop.’

  13

  Alison Carmichael shut the door to the room and huffed out a deep breath. ‘Well, at least she hasn’t been raped.’

  Vicky nodded. Something like relief surged in her stomach. Then again, being reduced to a teenage girl not being raped feeling like relief? Christ. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ Alison stared back down the long corridor, then out of the window to the hospital’s inner courtyard. ‘Based on my unfortunately great experience of similar cases, I would say that Teresa’s going to be okay. There’s a significant difference between her and Ms Gordon. But… Miss Ennis isn’t well. The abdominal injuries she sustained in the car boot… Who hogties someone in the back of a car?’ Anger flashed across her lips, baring teeth. ‘Who does that?’

  ‘We have a suspect. Same man as with Catriona Gordon’s rape.’

  ‘Well, I hope you lock him up and throw the key in radioactive waste.’ Alison shut her eyes, clamping them tight. ‘I wish I could help, I really do, but all I’ve got so far is that Miss Ennis was assaulted.’

  ‘So she’s been awake all this time?’

  ‘Sadly not. She’s sustained a cranial injury, as a result of trauma to her head.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get that from being locked in a boot, though. Has someone hit her on the head?’

  ‘I believe so. Blunt force trauma. Bottom line is she doesn’t remember much about her ordeal.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Not sure. A jack, maybe? Something metallic. No lasting damage, but she’s going to have a hell of a bump for a while.’

  Vicky winced. A teenage girl sat behind that door, the subject of a vicious assault. Tortured, mentally and physically. Maybe torture was too strong a word. Maybe she was just restrained. The fact Teresa hadn’t been raped, that didn’t lessen the pain any. Or the urgency. ‘Okay, so can I get a couple of minutes with her?’

  Alison stared at the door, thinking it all through, then nodded. ‘Okay.’ She squelched off down the corridor.

  Vicky stood there, trying to take enough breaths to calm her thumping heart. Not just any teenage girl, that would be hard enough, but a colleague’s daughter. Someone close to her. Even if he was a dickhead.

  Christ.

  She pushed the door open and stepped in.

  A squeal tore at her ears.

  Teresa was sitting on the edge of the bed, head poking out of her top, wrapped around her neck. At least she had her bra on. ‘Help.’

  Vicky stepped forward. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I can’t… I’m stuck. This.’ Teresa tried to stand but couldn’t. She sat there, swaying, her eyes shooting around her head. ‘I feel so shit.’

  Vicky eased the top back over her head. ‘I think you should lie down.’

  Teresa complied, as easily as a just-fed newborn, and let Vicky tuck her in to the thick bed sheet. Lyi
ng back and staring at the ceiling. ‘Who you?’

  Christ, she was really out of it. Whatever McLean had hit her with had really spaced her out. Concussion was a bastard.

  ‘I’m Vicky. I’m a cop.’

  Teresa’s eyes shot over. ‘You work with Dad?’

  Vicky nodded.

  ‘God. He’s going to be so angry.’

  ‘Your old man’s going to be relieved you’re okay. Well, as okay as can be.’

  ‘What happened to me?’

  ‘I was hoping you could help me with that.’

  The door opened and Considine stepped in like he was entering the staff canteen at Bell Street. All swagger and smiles. ‘Here you go.’ He was carrying two plastic cups, oblivious to the teenager in the bed. ‘Just how you like it, Sarge.’

  ‘You daft sod.’ Alison the nurse reappeared and grabbed the cups out of his hands. ‘How stupid are you?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ Vicky joined Considine in the corridor and leaned in close. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You can’t walk into a hospital room with cups of tea!’

  Considine stared at the floor like he was Bella, getting told off for naughtiness yet again. ‘Trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘Stephen, have you got hold of her father?’

  ‘Tried. Not answering.’

  Vicky took out her notebook. ‘You’re going to verify her story, okay? Write it all down.’ She went back in and focused on Teresa, trying to assess how far the fairies had taken her.

  She was scowling at Considine like he was going to assault her.

  ‘Teresa, this is a colleague of your father’s too. Stephen. He’s a cop.’

  She looked up at him.

  Considine got out his own notebook. ‘What do you remember of your ordeal?’

  What part of write it all down didn’t he understand?

  ‘Nothing.’

  Superb.

  Didn’t deter Considine. ‘What was the last thing you remember?’

  Teresa looked up at the ceiling. ‘I can’t remember anything. I remember driving. Skidding. Then, I think we saw Carly’s boyfriend’s car?’

  Shit, she didn’t know her friend was dead, did she?

  Superb. Just superb.

  ‘And what kind of car was it?’

  Teresa looked over at Vicky. ‘Why?’

  She smiled back. ‘It might be important.’

  ‘You think he attacked me?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Is Carly okay?’

  Vicky looked over at Considine, eyebrows raised so he got the message to keep quiet. ‘You don’t remember anything until we found you?’

  ‘I can’t think.’

  ‘When we found you, you’d been tied up.’

  ‘Oh man. My dad’s going to kill me.’

  ‘We’re trying to get him down here. And believe me, the last person he will want to kill is you.’

  Teresa’s pout suggested she still didn’t believe it.

  ‘Teresa, my dad’s a cop. I know what it’s like.’

  ‘Right. Do you?’

  Vicky held her gaze. ‘Yes. I really do.’

  ‘Where did you see Carly’s boyfriend’s car?’

  ‘Um, at the supermarket?’

  ‘Did you see anyone there?’

  ‘I can’t think.’ Teresa screwed her eyes shut. ‘Wait, I remember the boot was open… they pushed me in. I… I must’ve been knocked out.’

  Vicky stepped forward, eyes wide, trying to encourage her. ‘Did you see your attacker?’

  ‘It was dark.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No. Yes. I don’t know. It was really dark. Someone snapped things on my wrist and ankles. Then they… I think they hit me.’ She touched her bandaged crown and checked the fingers for blood. ‘They hit me and I only remember waking up in the car. Then you came to me.’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘How do you think I felt? Sore!’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘When I was taken?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I think… Don’t know.’

  ‘Did anyone say anything?’

  ‘Maybe I heard someone chasing Carly.’

  ‘Did she know them?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘When you were tied up, could you tell if there was more than one person?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Could you tell if they were male or female?’

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, Teresa, it’s okay to not know. Just keep telling the truth.’

  ‘You saying I’m lying?’

  ‘No. I’m not. Did you say something to the person?’

  ‘I had those knickers in my mouth. Or a rag, or whatever it was.’

  ‘Did the person or people say anything to you?’

  ‘Not that I can think. Maybe.’

  The door opened and Alison peered in.

  Vicky smiled at Teresa. ‘Okay. We’ll be back soon, okay?’ She left the room, but had to help Considine out with his cups of tea. She took hers now. ‘Thanks.’ She focused on Alison, sipping metallic milky gloop. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Well, the bloods are negative.’

  ‘Negative?’

  Alison nodded. ‘Afraid so.’

  Vicky tried to process it.

  Teresa had been awake when she found her in the boot. So Dougie McLean had given her a good dunt on the head, then fallen asleep? Maybe he’d given up trying to escape, and just had tried to deflect blame.

  ‘How do you explain the loss of memory?’

  ‘What, aside from the dunt she took to her head?’ Alison put a hand on the door. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  ‘No worries.’ Vicky winced. ‘Oh, and somebody needs to tell her about Carly.’

  ‘Leave it with me. The counsellor just came on, I’ll get her to have a word.’ Alison smiled back. ‘You’ve probably done enough of that tonight.’

  ‘More than enough. A police officer should be involved, if only to gauge the reaction.’

  ‘Well, get them to find me in the nurse’s station.’ Alison slipped through the door.

  Vicky stepped off down the corridor, trying to get away from the room. ‘Stephen, I thought I told you to stay at the taxi firm?’

  ‘Erm, well.’ He sniffed. ‘Heard the call about the lad’s phone come through so I hotfooted it up there. I was quicker than you. And—’

  ‘You shouldn’t have just left. Alan Kettles might be destroying records as we speak.’

  ‘Well, there are two of your team sitting with him. Summers and Buchan.’

  Christ, who put him in charge?

  ‘I need you to get back there, okay?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there might be other victims. Not just Catriona and Teresa.’

  ‘Oh, man.’

  ‘But please stay here and gauge the reaction when Teresa’s told of Carly’s death.’

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Anything weird. Sure, it could be a concussion, could be post-ictal as a result of a seizure from brain ischemia, or she could be playing possum because she was complicit in her friend’s murder.’

  ‘Christ, you’re a tough one.’ Considine finished his tea and crumpled the cup, but there weren’t any bins nearby. Vicky had no idea what happened to her cup, maybe he’d drunk both. He was going to leave it on the windowsill, but caught Vicky’s glare. ‘Oh. Nearly forgot. We found something.’

  ‘At the taxi firm?’

  ‘Aye. The daft sod had a street pick up from round the corner from Catriona Gordon’s.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Nope. Just after she was raped, I’d say.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘This is important!’

  ‘Calm the beans, Sarge. I sent that clown Buchan round to get a statement.’

 
‘You’ve got their name?’

  ‘Aye, spoke to the wifie on the phone. Joan Inglis. Lives up in the Hilltown, seeing her brother. Boy’s just lost his wife, so they were having a wee tipple.’

  ‘But if she was too far gone when—’

  ‘She’s teetotal, Sarge. Brother’s a lush, but she was completely compost mental.’

  ‘It’s compos mentis.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Never mind, Stephen. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Sarge. Except to DI Forrester come annual appraisal time.’

  ‘Can you get a statement from her?’

  14

  Where the hell was he?

  Vicky felt like she’d been standing outside the interview room for hours, but it had been less than ten minutes. She checked her phone again, but nothing. Still, maybe anything shy of an hour was over-optimistic for a duty doctor on Christmas Eve.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  She swung around and saw a short uniformed officer plodding along the corridor accompanying a much taller man, swinging his briefcase in his hand. Black suit, white shirt, sky-blue tie. He looked like he meant business, his face flabby around an aggressive snarl on his tiny features. He stopped and thrust out a hand. ‘Bruce Watson of Nelson-Caird & Watson. Here to represent Mr McLean.’

  Vicky nodded at the uniform. ‘Thanks.’ Then scanned Watson’s face. ‘How long do you need with your client?’

  ‘I got enough information over the phone.’ Watson checked his watch. ‘Be wishing you a Merry Christmas in just over an hour. Let’s just get him back home, aye? Nice family Christmas tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve visited his home. He hasn’t got any family.’

  ‘Except for his poor mother, all alone now.’ Watson’s snarl turned into the most pathetic small child pout. ‘Father left her last summer and she was looking forward to a Christmas with her only son.’

  Vicky knew precisely what game Watson was playing at here but still felt that tickle in the back of her throat. The sympathy card, but he was playing it way too early. ‘Your client should’ve thought about his poor mother before he raped one girl, murdered another and kidnapped a third, shouldn’t he?’

  ‘That’s a moot point.’

  ‘A moot point?’ Vicky felt her eyebrows jerk up. ‘Excuse me?’

  Watson put his hand on the door. ‘I assume you’re intent on seeing this charade through?’