Hell To Pay (13 page)

Chapter 35

With McNab dead, we’re left with the kind of loose ends you can’t just snip off with a pair of scissors. We wiped down McNab's gun and threw it in the Clyde. We also had McNab’s driver and Scarface still tucked up safely in the trunk of his car.

We thought about driving the car into the River Clyde with the pair inside because they could identify us, but only for a fleeting moment. Unlike McNab and his ilk, we weren’t cold-blooded killers. Besides, we didn’t feel the need, because it wasn’t as though the pair of them would go squealing to the police. It wouldn't do their street cred much good and it would lead to the police looking closer into their activities. We doubted either man would want that.

We opted to phone in an anonymous tip off, saying we’d seen two men being forced by gunpoint into the trunk of a car.

When McNab and Rosalie’s bodies were discovered, there was a media feeding frenzy. For weeks, lurid tales of Glasgow’s criminal underbelly filled the news bulletins and newspaper columns. They reveled in retelling how McNab was murdered by his daughter who he'd been sexually abusing for years. They painted Rosalie as an avenging victim.

A week after McNab’s untimely demise, DI Waddell paid me another visit, this time he came without his emu. Maybe he thought if he kept it chummy I’d tell him what we wanted to know. No chance. 

Waddell fixed me with one of his specialty grown-up stares as he sat on my couch. "Look, Nancy, I know you were involved in what happened to Paul Conlan. And, despite all the evidence to the contrary that Rosalie McNab acted alone, this doesn’t smell right to me. How would a wee lassie manage to tie up her father, alone? He weighed thirteen stone and she only weighed about seven. There’s just no way."

He stopped talking, giving me more time to squirm, but I refused to buckle under the weight of his scrutiny. McNab got what he deserved. Now my family could rest in peace and I could move on.

Waddell leaned across so our knees were almost touching. "I can’t prove it, but I know you were involved somewhere along the line. As a police officer, I can’t condone what you did, although I do understand it."

He paused and met my eyes, searching for any evidence of a lie. "If I do get proof you were involved, I’ll have to arrest you. You do realize that don't you?"

My expression doesn’t change. Despite his words, I was calm because I know he couldn’t touch me. If the DI Waddell’s of this world could arrest you they would. They wouldn't mess around.

"I’m trying to rebuild my life here," I told him, nodding at my half-painted wall. "I honestly wish I could help you. You’ve always been nice to me and I appreciate that. I know you have a difficult job."

Waddell hauled himself up out of his chair. His disappointment is palatable. "You know how to get in touch with me if you do change your mind."

"Take care, DI Waddell."

And, I mean it.

Waddell stopped at the door and turned round to face me. "If you ever need my help, don’t hesitate to call me Nancy. You have my card."

For the first time, I notice his hair is grayer than I remember. How many of those gray hairs have I added?

"Goodbye, DI Waddell," I said, as his footsteps thudded against the stairs on his way out. "I’m sorry for lying to you."

The last sentence was uttered when he was too far away to hear. 

Chapter 36

After the media had wrung every last drop of out of the McNab story, things died down for a while. They returned to their regular diet of celebrity drivel and reality TV gossip. Then something happened that eclipsed everything that had gone before; even the McNab story.

Over two weeks, four sex workers had gone missing in Glasgow.

Nobody paid much attention at the start. These women were society's T
hrowaways
according to one newspaper, with nobody to miss them.

But when stunning one-time graduate and part-time model Suzy Henderson’s body turned up in a landfill site, discovered too late to stop the crows from eating most of her eyes, the autopsy revealed she’d been strangled. She’d last been seen in the Anderston area of the city touting for business.

As was routine with autopsies, they’d done an analysis of her stomach contents. What they’d found was a first for the pathologist: a woman’s finger. The digit matched the DNA of Sheena Andrews who’d last been seen getting into a silver car in Cadogan Street. Like Suzy Henderson, she had a long record for soliciting. Unlike Suzy Henderson, the rest of her body wasn’t found.

Tommy and I are in my new place, watching the news, when the dehumanizing word prostitute is banded about like a slur. The implication’s always the same – through their ‘lifestyle choice’ these women have put themselves in harm’s way, so they deserved whatever happened to them. As if getting hooked on heroin or being forced into sexual slavery was any kind of choice.

Once the report was finished, Tommy turns to me with a smile. "What do you say? We could get this guy. Get him off the streets."

"Do you really think it’s a man?" I say.

Tommy grins. “I suppose it could be an angry wife killing all the women her husband’s paid for sex.”

He gets a soft punch on the shoulder for his cheek.

Despite myself, my lips curl up. "No, you’re right; more or less every serial killer they’ve caught has been male."

Tommy raises an eyebrow. "Maybe whoever’s doing this is the new Bible John? Out there, bringing down his judgment on the sinners."

I give him a funny look.

There’s a flash of excitement on Tommy’s face. "We can do it, you know. Find this guy, Nancy. Who else will? They're just prostitutes to everyone else, including the police.”

Tommy’s serious, but do I honestly want to risk my life, again, especially when this time it’s got absolutely nothing to do with me?

Images flash through my mind of Rosalie - after she’d eaten her own bullets. Nobody helped her and it was too late now.

"Okay," I say. "Let’s get this creep."

Epilogue 

"Do you think Nancy Kerr was involved in McNab’s death and the attack on Paul Conlan, Sir?"

Waddell was getting started on the sea of paperwork accumulating on his desk, when Brian McKeith appeared in the doorway making his jaw clench. The last thing he needed was to think about a case that was now officially closed. He'd far pressing matters such as trying to find the nutter who was going around abducting and killing prostitutes.

"To be honest, Brian, I don’t know and at the moment I don’t care."

His manner was abrupt, but he’d long ago discovered that the only way to get McKeith out of his office was to be sharp with him.

McKeith pushed his glasses up his nose. "It makes sense that McNab’s daughter would want to kill him, but who’d attack Paul Conlan? He’s a nobody. A thug for hire."

"Who’d made a lot of enemies," said Waddell, putting a pen through half of his files and placing them on top of the filing cabinet.

"There’s also the brother of Tony McIntyre to consider, Sir. He'd have wanted anybody involved in his brother's murder dead. Maybe he took care of business?"

Waddell felt his blood pressure rise. "Brian, will you get the hell out of my office. I’m too busy to listen to harebrained theories about closed cases. I’ve got enough on my plate."

From behind his glasses, McKeith blushed and that made Waddell relent. At least the boy was keen.

"Brian," he said softly, "at this moment in time we have a maniac going around Glasgow picking off vulnerable women. If you’ve any theories about that I’d love to hear them, but anything else keep a lid on it. Besides, Tommy McIntyre was never a viable suspect. Unless he stood up and shoved his guts back in again, there was no way he could have been involved in any of it."

McKeith looked puzzled.

Waddell carried on. "I thought you’d read all the files. He died in Iraq. Killed by an IED. Dead men don’t walk and they certainly don’t kill anyone. Not even in Glasgow."

TO BE CONTINUED…

THROWAWAYS (Die Hard for Girls Book 2)
is out now.

READ ON FOR AN EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT

THROWAWAYS (Die Hard for Girls Book 2)

About Throwaways

Huddled in a doorway, in a blonde wig and my best Pretty Woman outfit, I'm already soaked to the skin.

Any minute now, a car will pull up and the occupant will ask me how much I charge for sex.

As downward spirals go, this is bad.

But I'm not here because I'm reduced to turning tricks for a living.

I'm here to catch a killer…

Throwaways - that's the word they're using for the Glasgow sex workers who've gone missing.

But two people do care and Nancy Kerr and Tommy McIntyre won't stop until they discover the truth; even if it gets them killed.

"Not since Kill Bill, have we seen a female protagonist so hell-bent on the dish best served cold."

Prologue

As the ball gag cut off her cries for help, Diane tried to steady her breathing. If she didn’t, she’d suffocate. She sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow in her head and imagined she was in the kitchen singing along with Kyra as they washed the dishes; little Kyra standing on a stool so she could reach the sink, her wee sleeves rolled up so her top didn’t get wet. But, no matter how hard she tried to tune everything out one thought was trapped in her head: she’d never see her daughter again.

“It’s good money,” Traci had chirped as she’d flicked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was platinum blonde today. “All we need to do is put on a girl on girl show, lez it up a bit and we’re onto a big score. It’ll be fun.”

She made a gesture with her hand as though she was counting money. “From what I’ve heard this punter is seriously loaded, and not shy about throwing his cash around either.”

The prospect of a big payday was tempting, but Diane had never done anything like that before. With her, a blowy down a dark lane and a wee car ride to the back of a disused warehouse was more her usual. She’d never done any lezzy stuff, but she couldn’t afford to turn this job down. Not with her Kyra needing some shoes.

Despite the protests in her head, she said, “Okay, sounds good. But, how did you find out about this gig? Do you know the guy?” She’d long since learnt that if something sounded too good to be true, it always was.

Traci shook her head. “Nah, but a friend of mine vouched for him.”

“Who’s your friend?”

Her question made Traci smile, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “If I told you that, doll, what’s to stop you cutting me out and doing the gig yourself?”

There was an implied threat in her words. Diane knew she’d get rag dolled if she crossed Traci. She’d seen her in action enough times; once she’d dragged another girl along the pavement by the hair because she accused her of stealing one of her punters. The other girl had screamed like a banshee, but nobody had gone to help her. You looked after yourself on the streets and never got involved unless you wanted your face rearranged. That was rule number one.

***

Traci hadn't been capable of battering anyone the last time she'd seen her. Her ginger hair (he must have ripped off her wig) had been hacked off. Tufts of it stuck out, reminding Diane of one of the hairdressing dolls Kyra was always playing with. She called it Angel, but it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, especially after Kyra had cut off its hair with nail scissors when she’d been out of the room.

What Diane wouldn't give right now to have the doll on her lap whilst Kyra used her best lipstick as blusher.

A tear trundled down her cheek. Nobody was ever going to find her. She'd die here, alone in this damp, dark room, with rats that were as big as cats scuttling around. She’d starve to death and then they’d eat her, gnawing on her face first; sharp, jagged teeth tearing into skin and bone. She’d seen that in a movie once. All she'd been given to eat was bread that was only fit for the birds and milk that smelled funny. She’d thought about not drinking it, but with nothing else to drink, she was always glad when she saw the plastic cup.

When he brought the food, it was the only time he removed her gag. He'd leave her for five minutes then return to replace the gag. If she resisted he'd inject her with one of those needles he always carried. Pain would scream through her veins and then she’d be out of it. She’d wake up with a raging thirst and tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat on her face. But then there were worse things than being injected…