Unbound Ties: When the past unravels, all that’s left is death ... A Gritty Crime Fiction Police Procedural Novel (Gus McGuire Book 7)

by Liz Mistry

  Chapter 65

  Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland

  Coco’s son is the one I have to convince, and the laddie looks anything but friendly. Those eyes of his, so like his mum’s – that same sparkling blue that can turn in a second to a dark bottomless pond. The dark rims around the iris. He is his mother’s son. I wait, palms up on the table. I don’t want him to see the state of my fists. Stupid, because the damage I’ve done to my face is there for anyone to see. Bruises, bumps, and scratches. No wonder he is suspicious of me. There’s nothing I can do but wait.

  All morning I’d been psyching myself up to talk to Dr Mara and then, there he was, right in front of me and I don’t want to blow it. I know what he thinks of me. I know because that version of me is the one I’ve relied on all these years. So long now, I find it easy to repeat it all ad nauseam for every psych report. But I can’t do that any longer. There’s too much at stake now. I wait, watching him, trying to judge his reactions.

  Gus turns to the psychiatrist, but Carlton’s studying me, a new expression on his face. He nods as if satisfied with something he has decided and turns to Gus. ‘I think we need to listen to what Jimmy has to say, Angus, don’t you?’

  Almost as if he’s sleepwalking, Gus retraces his steps and sits opposite me, his eyes never leaving my face.

  I try out a smile, ignoring the way it stretches the cuts on my lips. ‘You’re stubborn like her, I can tell. It’s that ferocious flashing in your eyes and the way your lips narrow. You look like her. Just tell me she’s well … tell me she’s happy and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  Corrine’s boy gives a grudging nod and inside I smile – so like his mum. ‘She’s well, she’s happy – she’s not going to see you.’

  ‘Can’t blame her – not when she thinks what she does. Maybe when you’ve heard my story you might reconsider. You set to record.’ I point to the Carlton’s phone, but Gus takes his out instead and places it just out of my hand’s reach. Smart like his mum too.

  I wait while Gus, in police mode, states who is present and when asked, I agree that I’m offering my statement of my own free will.

  Hands clasped loosely on the table; I begin. Even to me my voice sounds tired, as if I barely have the energy to think, never mind verbalise the tale I’m about to tell. ‘I’ve kept this a secret for so long. I thought all those years ago that I was doing the right thing. I thought it would be for the best – I see now I was wrong.’

  Inhaling, trying to find the strength not to rip those restraints off and hammer my fists into my face, I close my eyes. Shaking my head, I try to order my thoughts. ‘It was when I lost my job. That’s when it all went wrong. Jude, my wife, got involved in the wrong crew down the local and she was hooked on drugs – heroin, mainly. Glasgow’s still got the worst drug rate in Europe I’m told – well in them days it was no different. I tried to get her help, then I tried to monitor how much she was taking – you know, try to wean her off it.’

  It pains me to admit how stupid – how naive I was in those days. By my side, I clench and unclench my fists, allowing the pain of my nails digging into my palms to suffice, for now. ‘She found her own way to make money for the drugs – down the dockyards, shagging behind the containers. Then she started getting them to come to the house when I was out job hunting. That’s when Ben, my eldest, caught her. He was devastated. Totally broken. He didn’t mean to do it – he was only a kid – twelve years old – no more.’

  Gus interrupts me. I see the scorn on his face, and I can’t blame him. ‘You’re saying that Ben killed his mum after finding her in bed with someone?’ He laughs and the disbelief in that sound pierces me.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I’m telling ye. My lads were big lads – they took after me.’

  The tartan loon psychiatrist removes his specs and lifts his T-shirt up to wipe them revealing a hairy belly that at any other time would make me laugh, but Angus is still speaking, still in that doubtful tone. ‘So, you took the blame?’

  ‘Yes, I took the blame. I staged it to look like Rory’s mum’s death – thought they might think it was suicide like they did with her – but they didn’t. Ben helped me set it up. I swore him to secrecy – made him promise to get on with his life … I thought the boys would be better off with different parents. Ones that could take better care of them than an unemployed shipyard worker.’

  I’m so attuned to the change in Angus’s moods that I realise from the way his eyes darken, what his next question will be.

  ‘How could you possibly know anything about Rory’s mum’s death? You were only a kid yourself when it happened.’

  He’s tense, doubtful, almost accusing, and I wonder if my honest explanation will be enough to convince him. ‘I already told you that when I was old enough, I traced Coco, didn’t I? She was at university and she often hung out with Rory at lunchtime. I checked him out. Went to an exhibition he had at the Art School.’

  I smile, remembering how awed I’d been to see some of the images. ‘There were intricate pencil drawings of your mama as a child and then again when they reconnected at university. They were enthralling. He’d also drawn a series; I’ll never forget it. He entitled it ‘Torture of the Mind.’ In the middle was a charcoal drawing of a woman hanging from a rope. The only colour in the sketch was her toenails which were a vivid red. Her face was blurred, but she looked like she was still, very gently, moving. It was heartbreaking.’

  I glance over at Rory; he’s mumbling to himself and not for the first time I curse myself for my part in his downfall. Still watching him, his pencil flashing over his paper, his concentration so focussed on his task, I flinch. The difference between the Rory of those days and this shell of him now taunts me every day. ‘Around the long rectangular drawing were a series of smaller, more detailed square line drawings of various parts of the woman – her feet, her hands, the rope round her neck … they were awful, but so poignant. When I left the exhibition, I just had to find out more about this talented man, who seemed to know my sister after she left us.’

  When I look up, Angus is looking at Rory, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then when he speaks, it’s clear that he still disbelieves me. ‘So, not only did you let my mum continue to think you were dead – something she blamed herself for all her life – you stalked her just as you stalked your own sons. You really are the business, aren’t you, Jimmy?’

  It’s no more than I deserve, still his words slice through me and the urge to slam my head against the table is almost too strong to withstand. Yet, somehow, I do. If I mess up now, before I’ve at least made him consider my innocence, then I’m done, and Coco will be in danger. ‘Stalking is a strong word, Angus. I wanted to check she was OK, just as I wanted to make sure my kids were OK too.’ I sip my Irn Bru which has long since gone flat, through the straw. I’m not used to talking so much and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed razors.

  ‘I was curious about Rory after that. Really curious. They seemed close, he and Coco, and I just wanted to get a sense of what her childhood had been like.’ I pause, remembering my own childhood. The sweat from punters forcing themselves on my pre-pubescent body – the pain – the hurt, the eventual desensitising as I grew to expect it. ‘I had to make sure she hadn’t suffered the way I had. That’s how I found out about Rory’s mum – poor sod found her like that and, it tainted the rest of his life. Even now, when he gets distressed, it’s that image he draws.’

  We sit in silence, then. Bernie smiles encouragingly at me and I appreciate it, but the person I want – no, need – to convince is still sceptical. With his dreads pulled back from his face, his angular cheekbones stand out proud. His lips are pursed, and the frown that pulls his eyebrows together is deep and angry.

  It’s Carlton who breaks the silence, specs back on his nose, he practically bounces in his chair. ‘Let’s go back to your sons, Jimmy. Tell us about them.’

  This is it then. The point of no return. I have to convince them,
but I’m not sure I can. Sometimes in the dead of night, I’m not sure I even convince myself. ‘Ben was a weird kid. Had some strange ideas. I hoped his new parents would knock the weirdness out of him, but they didn’t.’

  Sensing that Carlton is more unbiased, I direct my next words to him. ‘You know, I think he killed Rory’s wife. I don’t think it was Rory. I think it was my Ben.’

  All at once it’s too much for me. I’m struggling against the restraints, tears running down my face. ‘It was lies. It was all lies. Everything was lies. And it’s all my fault.’

  Bernie jumps to his feet, syringe in his hand and in relief I fade into oblivion.

  Chapter 66

  Bradford

  The Man in Black is in his den. Pacing back and forth. What happened at Karen Smith’s house might have been energising, might have given him a rush, but now, with the adrenalin fading from his limbs, he’s concerned.

  That was close, very close, and who knows what will become of it. Will the CSI recover and remember what she saw in the attic? He is convinced that, although she initially thought he was some sort of vermin, just at the end, she recognised him as human. That aside, would the roof collapse lead the CSIs to explore the attic space? He doesn’t really think they’re smart enough to make that jump, but he can’t discount it completely.

  So, what to do? What to do? He takes out his notebook and opens it to the page with his two lists and looks at each in turn. He could just tear up the non-ritual kill list and focus on the last two of his ritual kills. That would probably be the sensible thing to do. But since when have I ever been sensible? He puts his ritual list down and studies the other list. He’s already decided who’s next, he’s already planned out the where and the when, but isn’t it fun to change direction – to mash things up a bit. Plans are made to be broken and, well, I’m always up for the challenge.

  ****

  They will never expect this – not in a million years. Why would they? The Man in Black isn’t wearing black. Instead, he’s wearing a uniform – one he stripped from the cleaner whom he injected with ketamine and hid among the cleaning equipment in the small storeroom. It’s a bit too big for him, but after all, he’s improvising, isn’t he?

  The corridors are dark, but it had been easy for him to hack in and get a site plan. He’d initially intended to kill this target at their home, yet a revised plan proved that this would be equally effective. The smell of vanilla drifts down the corridor. He smiles. He prefers lavender, but – that’s a different story. The huge aquarium offers a momentary distraction as he stands in the dull outer office deciding on his weapon. Of course this time, he’ll have to use the ketamine again. He wonders if they’ll link that – surely to goodness they will – even they can’t be that stupid.

  His hacking earlier on had told him where DI Gus McGuire was – he and his mum and the quirky psychologist. The Man in Black hoped that this would be enough to bring them hurtling back down to Bradford, where he could taunt them further. Their absence took some of the fun from his work and that he couldn’t tolerate. Besides, what are they doing poking about in Scotland of all places, that’s too close for comfort.

  Back to the job in hand. It’s silent beyond the door, yet he knows his victim is there. He goes over to the bookshelf. The Life and Times of Charles Dickens – Yes, that would do the trick. Slotting it under his arm, he gets his syringe out. When he opens the door, he’ll have only a short amount of time before his prey realises he isn’t the usual cleaner. Working late at the office doesn’t have any benefits after all.

  This is rather exciting for him. He loves this part of the process and the fact that he’s had to pull it together so quickly serves to heighten his enjoyment. He creeps over to the door and swings it open. The prey’s eyes change in an instant from an uncomprehending frown to a spark of fear as he rushes forward, syringe hidden until the last minute when he lunges over her desk aiming for her neck.

  She’s quick though, Damn her! She jumps to her feet, pushing her chair away from the desk and he misses her neck by centimetres. But he’s not done. The noise is irrelevant because there’s no one here to help her – not now. He rushes forward and pushes the desk towards her at speed trapping her against the back wall. He’s still got the syringe in his hand as he jumps over the table and, narrowly avoiding her scratching fingernails, deposits the ketamine in her jugular as he’d intended all along. She slides to the floor, as he pulls the desk away from her to give him space to work. For the sake of consistency, he picks up the tome he’d selected and whacks her on the head. Her eyes register the pain, but she can’t move, can’t speak, can’t protest when he puts his silicon covered hands around her neck and squeezes the life from her.

  Soon afterwards, he’s sitting in the Hare and Hounds, drink in hand, replaying his busy day’s work in his mind. Quite the achievement. He’ll sleep well tonight and hopefully Dr Mahmood’s death will bring his adversaries home.

  Chapter 67

  Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland

  She’s back! The girl with the brown eyes and dark hair but she’s not alone. I don’t like this. There’s three of them and they’re walking towards me. The tall one – the fella-, was talking to Jimmy earlier. Poor Jimmy took one of his turns and Bernie had to sedate him.

  ‘They’re coming to get you, Rory. If they catch you, they’re going to eat you, Rory.’

  I jump to my feet and gather my drawing things together. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’

  ‘They’re coming to get you, Rory. If they catch you, they’re going to eat you, Rory.’

  I chant the words in my head again and again… ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’

  ‘They’re coming to get you, Rory. If they catch you, they’re going to eat you, Rory.’

  ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’

  ‘They’re coming to get you, Rory. If they catch you, they’re going to eat you, Rory.’

  ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’

  ‘They’re coming to get you, Rory. If they catch you, they’re going to eat you, Rory.’

  I recognise that stupid rhyme from my childhood, so I know the voices are only teasing me – for now. If I get away from the girl, they won’t escalate, I’m sure they won’t. Oh no, she’s calling my name.

  ‘Rory, Rory, hold on a minute. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.’

  I don’t want to meet anybody. I don’t like meeting folk. They always want me to think about when I found … I shake my head. I’m not going to think about it. Not today.

  ‘Yes, you will, Rory, you always think about it, that’s why you draw them spinning above your head, dangling on their ropes.’

  ‘Stop it. Stop it! Stop it!’ I can’t help it, the words slip out and from the corner of my eye, I notice the girl stop. Her face has that concerned frown on it and I want to tell her I’m sorry. That I wasn’t shouting at her, but then I remember she stole my drawings. That’s why I have to hide these ones. These are the ones Jimmy asked me to draw and she can’t have them.

  I scurry away to my room. But the voices come back and they’re not nice. It’s not the lavender voice, it’s one of the others. ‘She’s a bitch, Rory. She should dangle from a rope.’

  ‘No. No! No…’

  I get into my room and slam the door behind me, and I can barely breathe. I need to hide them, need to hide them to keep them safe for Jimmy. They’ll be here soon, the girl and the other two. No locks on the door. I need to be quick. Where can I hide them?

  I rush over and yank the mattress up. I’ll hide them in my folder, beside the other sketches. But I need to be quick.

  ‘Run, Rory, Run, Rory … Run! Run! Run!’

  But there’s nowhere to run. When the knock comes, I jump up, and holding just my pencils I lean against the back door, waiting. I know they don’t want permission. They come in whenever they want, that’s why there’s no locks.

  Another rap and she’s calling through the door. ‘Rory, I’m going to open the door now
, OK? I’ve brought someone who has been waiting a long time to see you. We’re coming in now.’

  What if they take me away before I can give the drawings to Jimmy? I promised him I’d do them. I didn’t want to – not really. I wanted to draw the garden today, but he pleaded and he’s my friend, so I said OK.

  I can’t do anything though, because she’s opening the door. I try not to look at them. But one of them, the older woman comes towards me, while the other two hang back at the door. The girl is smiling, but the man has a frown on his face and his hands thrust into his pockets. For a second, he reminds me of Jimmy and my shoulders relax a little.

  The older woman comes closer, she takes slow steps and stops a few feet away from me. I can see her toes in her sandals, but I don’t look up at her.

  ‘She’ll steal your drawings, Rory. Watch out she’ll steal them. Run! Run! Run!’

  Shaking my head from side to side I try to make them to stop. I bite my lip because I don’t want the visitors to know I hear the other voices. But then she speaks – the older woman with the sandals on her feet.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Rory? I hope you haven’t forgotten me. I haven’t forgotten you.’

  I look up. Her face is older, wrinkled, her hair’s grey and shorter than when we were children. But her eyes tell me it really is her. ‘Coco?’

  My voice comes out all hoarse and scratchy. She smiles and nods. I rush past her and see the younger man move forward. He thinks I’m going to hurt her. Hurt my Coco. I glare at him and that’s when I notice his eyes. Coco’s son. I move to my bookshelves and pull down my sketchbooks. I know the one I want. It has three hundred and thirty-five drawings in it. It should have three hundred and forty, but she – I glance at the girl with the dark hair – stole them. I place it on the bed and then step away from it, my back against the bookshelf this time.