Blood Tears (23 page)

‘Tell your ex-colleagues.’ I think I’d have got more reaction if I’d complained about the long drive down. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’

‘Let’s just say I have a vested interest. And my ex-colleagues, well they’re no’ listening. I need you to tell me about her life. Who might have it in for her? Does she have any boyfriends? That sort of thing.’

‘She’s the DIY Queen. Nobody, and naw, she doesn’t have any boyfriends.’

‘Oh come on, mate. I’ve driven a long way to speak to you. Gimme a break.’

‘Nobody invited you. Mate.’

‘You ever been in trouble with the police before?’ For a young guy he is pretty composed while being questioned by a police officer. Albeit one with a dodgy hairdo and an even dodgier career.

‘Let’s just say I had to grow up fast.’

I lean back in my chair and take a drink. ‘It must have been tough being brought up by two women. Not a father figure in sight.’

‘There was plenty of men about. You just wouldn’t want them as a father.’

‘Devlin liked her men then?’

He snorted, ‘God no. She should have been a nun. My mum was the slapper. Men and drink. Men and drugs. As long as she had one she had the other. Let’s just say that self-respect was way down the agenda.’ He’s fiddling with the beer mat, placing one corner on the table, sliding his grip down, turning it over and starting again. His eyes are on the table, but his gaze is way back in the past.

‘Must have been tough.’

‘What do you care?’ He leans forward, all spiky now.

I shrug. ‘Just saying. Can’t have been nice.’

‘I used to think that Carole was a dyke. You know? I mean, what was in it for her? Why was she even there? She used to run after my mum all the time. Clean up her puke ’n her shite. And she fucking hated the sight of me. Couldn’t even look at me at times.’

‘That surprises me. Her house is covered in photographs of you.’

‘I pulled her up on it once. She said she did love me. But I reminded her of my dad too much.’

‘Who was your dad?’ A klaxon is ringing somewhere inside my skull. This is big. This is important.

‘Don’t know.’ He slumps back down on his chair. A little boy again. I reach forward and touch his hand. He pulls it away from me as if my skin was on fire, and glares.

‘Don’t fuckin’ touch me.’ He stands up and looks around him at all the broad shoulders, beer bellies and chunky faces in the room. ‘I just need to shout “Fucking Poofter” and you’ll have less than five seconds to live.’

A flash. A picture. A voice. I’m on my knees. Bile rushes up my gullet, fills my mouth, its taste more than I can handle. I stand up, turn and push the door behind me. I make it to the sink in time.

I’m choking and coughing. Bile burns in my gullet, my eyes nip, while my brain sparks. The memory of a stabbing sensation. What was that? What was it doing to my insides?  Why is no-one coming to help? Feels like it’s ripping me apart. Feels like I’ll never be able to go to the toilet again. This is wrong. I can’t stop this from happening. Hot breath on my ear. The weight on my back. The rasp of an unshaven cheek on my face.  I’ve been pushed on to some form of… what? A rough wooden desk? I can smell pine and oil. Rough hands on my genitals.

What was that all about? What is going on? I turn on a tap and splash water over my face. The voice.

‘
… shout… and you’ll have less than five seconds to live.
’

I know that voice. He warned me he would kill me. I was only a child, what could I do?

Swallowing the bile that sat at the back of my throat like a lump of partly digested food, I turned to face the other man in the toilet. Whatever was going on in my own head I had to ignore it. I had a killer to catch. People to save.

The resemblance. I should have noticed it before. McCall is standing as far away from me as possible in the confined space.

‘What the hell was that? Your eyes. Your fucking eyes. What is going on?’ He is stepping forward on to one foot and then back on to the other in the manner of an Olympic sprinter before leaning into his blocks.

‘Why don’t you tell me, Joseph?’ I’m rubbing my face with a paper towel that could pass as sandpaper.

‘What?’ He’s confused, frightened.

‘You know, don’t you?’

‘Know what?’

‘And what’s more, so do I.’

The door opens and the barman walks in. His bulk almost cuts out the noise from the pub behind him.

‘Right ladies. Get your soggy arses out of here. We don’t take to that sort of thing in ’ere.’ He rubs his meaty fist with the palm of his other hand. Just in case we don’t get the message.

Outside, the pavement is slick with water and the heavy rainfall is creating a pincushion effect.

‘Joseph, come back here. I want to talk to you.’ I can hardly hear my own words through the downpour. He’s running. I pick up speed and catch him easily before he rounds the corner. I slam him up against the wall.

‘When were you last up in Glasgow, you prick?’ I’m going to have him. Because of this bastard I’ve lost my job. His wet, black hair looks like an oil slick in the poor light. His smile is just as oily. The little boy has vanished.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Just answer the fucking question.’ I push water from my eyes. ‘You have motive. All I need is to prove you had the opportunity and it’ll be Bumfuck City for you, pal.’

‘Fuck you,’ he spits in my face. My fist answers before I can blink. He is doubled over on the ground, struggling to fill his lungs from my blow to his solar plexus. Normally an act like this would calm me down, but I want to stamp on his head. I want to see the fucker bleed. I want to hurt him.

‘Oi, oi.’ I hear feet splashing at an impressive tempo and a kick goes missing as I’m thrown against the wall.

‘What do you think you’re doing, mate?’ A baton is pressed against my neck and a young policeman’s face thrusts into mine.

‘This gay bastard just tried to feel me up.’ I answer in my best Mancunian accent and stretch in one more kick, which misses. Joseph is sitting on the ground and is wearing that smile again. A smile that he only allows me to see. He jumps to his feet and shrinks away from me. His posture has completely changed now. His body has almost folded in upon itself in his display of fear. His eyes are aflame with it.

‘You’ve got to arrest that man, officer. You’ve got to save me.’

All eyes are on McCall. His performance is startling. He pulls one of the policemen towards him. Grabs at his tunic. ‘His name is Ray McBain…’ as soon as I hear that, I’m off. His voice trails after me ‘… and he’s wanted up in Glasgow for murder.’

Two streets away I force myself to slow down. A man running is bound to attract attention and I can’t hear any chasing footsteps. There’s no-one about as I approach my car, so I get in and consider my next move.

Has McCall convinced the local police as to who I am? If so, there goes my disguise. Do I hang around Manchester and try to see what McCall gets up to next? How did he know who I was? How long has he known that Connelly was his father, and did he really kill him? 

I’ve been sitting here in the car for well over an hour now. No police and no McCall. Does that mean he failed to convince them? Thank fuck McCall didn’t see me getting in or out of the car. I would be really stuck without it.

So is McCall the Christ Killer? We have motive for the murder of Connelly, but what about the other two? From what Daryl Drain said, it was the same M.O. What is the link? I need to delve deeper into the past of the two newly deceased to find something. Unless the sick fucker just got a taste for it and the next two are random victims. The poor bastards could just have been in the right place at the wrong time.

As for Connelly, when did McCall find out about his parentage? Has he been planning this for years? Or has he just found out? I can see Devlin baking him a cake for his twenty-first birthday, and, by the way, the secret ingredient is that your father is a career paedophile.

What would it be like to find
that
out all of a sudden? You’re already fucked-up because your mother is a deceased junkie alcoholic whore. Then you find out the reason is that some sick bastard raped her when she was only a girl, and
you
are the result of that putrid alliance. You are pure rage. You want someone to hurt. You want to peel back their skin, display their raw nerve ends and grate them down to a pulp and you won’t stop until you feel better.

Then you discover that you will never feel better. Nothing will ever make the pain go away.

Except.

You attack someone else, and in that moment when they are begging for their life, your pain is now their pain. You remember what pleasure feels like. You remember what it feels like not to be in pain all of the time. The relief is immense.

And short-lived.

You need to find someone else to take on that pain for you.

Again. And again.

I know this because suddenly I understand. Hold it together, McBain. My head feels like it’s in a vice. Where did that memory spring from? No. Connelly didn’t do me. Did he?

But the sensations were so real. Hands all over me. Trousers pulled down quickly. Cold air on my behind. Warm fingers separating my…

I manage to open the door before I’m sick. Almost hit a passer-by.

‘That booze’ll kill you mate,’ the man retorts as my puke splatters on the pavement. Bile is up my nose, making my eyes water. My mouth tastes like a toilet. I want to curl up in a dark corner and scream until these feelings leave me.

How can a memory like that just vanish? What else am I missing? What other memories have I locked away?

Forcing air into my lungs I sit upright in the seat. Got a job to do, Ray. A killer to catch. But it’s different now, a voice replies… now you know for sure that the dead man deserved everything he got. In fact, I almost wish it was me who did do it. I feel so violated that nothing will do but to scrape at my skin with a razor blade. Only that will take away the revulsion that ripples under my skin.

He deserved to die and I wish I had done it. There. Said it. But I didn’t do it. Did I? What other memories have I locked away?

Get a grip, McBain. McCall is the killer. You were with Theresa on the night Connelly died. What about that other night when she caught you sleepwalking? Could you have…?

Enough. McCall did it. Not me. And he’s got to be stopped. But where is he? Unless the police took him back to the local station to question him? Would they have got an artist in to take a drawing of me? Or maybe the name would be enough and it wouldn’t occur to them that I’d changed my appearance.

When did McCall realise who I was? Did he know from the first moment that he set eyes on me? He must have known that I was wanted for his crimes. It would have given him a big shock to find me on his doorstep. Maybe it was a thrill. He is an eerily composed young man. If I were he I would make it as difficult as possible for me. He won’t want to kill me. I’m his scapegoat and once I’m back in custody he can no longer kill with impunity.

For fuckssake, McBain. Stop thinking so much. Move the car. A car like this is bound to attract attention. I drive it around a corner from where I can still see McCall’s front door. The bastard has to come home some time.

A growl issues from my stomach and reminds me that I’ve not eaten for hours. And I need to get the taste of sick out of my mouth. Can I risk going for something to eat? If the policemen did take McCall to the station then he could be some time yet.

Unless he’s sitting somewhere watching me right now.

Five hours and no sign of McCall. No sign of the police either. If I was them I would be backtracking any spot where I was previously seen. I would expect me to be long gone, but there might be some clues.

Where would McCall go? Does he have any friends in the area? Does he have a back door to his flat? He could have been in and out during the time I‘d been sitting here.

How the fuck did he know it was me? Even Theresa would have walked past me if I hadn’t shouted her name.

What is going on here?

I’m out of the car and locking it with the remote control before I mentally articulate the action required. It’s dark now and the earlier movement of people coming home from work has tailed off. Only the occasional car passes me in the street.

At the door I look for McCall’s name on the buzzer. Room G is his. Do I ring all the buzzers and hope that someone lets me in or do I try and find a back entrance? I hear footsteps approaching behind me from the pavement and lean against the doorpost in what I hope is nonchalance. Then I let some mild irritation show in my expression as a reason for hanging about here enters my head.

‘Did you not find him then?’ The girl who answered the door to me earlier peers up into my face.

‘Yes and no.’ I give her my best
I’m truly harmless
smile. ‘He had to go somewhere and asked to meet me back here,’ I lift up my arm and look at my watch, ‘ooh… half an hour ago.’

‘That’s just like the selfish prick.’ We’re still on the p-word then. ‘Leave everyone waiting about for you, why don’t you.’ She smiles at me. ‘Sorry, I mustn't sound very ladylike to you.’ Sigh. ‘A long story.’ She plucks a set of keys from her canvas satchel. Very proletarian. ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee or something while you’re waiting?’ The door opens and she turns to face me while a flash of doubt reads in her eyes. ‘You look trustworthy enough.’ Her tone lacks conviction.

‘I’d love a coffee.’ The harmless smile is morphing into gormless. ‘But if you’d feel safer I’ll just drink it on the doorstep.’

‘Don’t be silly. Besides, I’ll just knee you in the bollocks if you try something.’

The policeman in me almost insists that I stay where I am. If I had a daughter I would teach her to be much less trusting. But, if I go in with her, she might be able to provide me with some much-needed information. I imagine the glint of a coin as it tumbles through the air. Heads, you get some company, young lady.

She ushers me into her bedsit and directs me to sit on the sofa that is squeezed into the bay window.

‘Don’t mind Che. He won’t bite.’ Only the back of his head is visible from this angle. ‘He came with the flat and I didn’t have the heart, or a new pair of curtains for that matter, to take him out.’