Murder Mile (26 page)

The living room was in darkness. The curtains were still open, the night outside showed a catenation of street lamps burning, bathing the pavement in a sickly orange glow. It took Henderson’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, then he settled on where he had left Crawley, tied and bound, before he left to pay his debt to Boaby Stevens. There was a pale patch of carpet and a long loop of unfurled nylon rope, but no Crawley.

Henderson stepped forward, turned towards the wall and groped in the darkness for the light switch.

When the room became illuminated he called out, ‘Crawley, you fucking bastard!’

Chapter 35

ANGELA MICKLE PULLED
her knees up before her where she sat on the filthy mattress. She rocked on her bony rear and ran the palms of her hands down the fronts of her skinny legs. A car’s horn sounded beyond the window, making her wince; at once she raised her hands to her ears and held them there, tried to block out the world beyond the mattress. Angela knew she should be out on the Links, scoring punters, scoring drugs. She knew that was why she felt the way she did – why her insides felt like they were being slow-cooked over an open flame – but there was a reason why she couldn’t face the Links.

She didn’t know how long Henderson had been away, she found it hard to record the passing of time – all time was withdrawal, minutes soon became hours, which became days. She knew, however, the longer he stayed away, the greater danger she may be in. Henderson didn’t know Colin Crawley; not like she did.

‘No. No. No.’

The memories returned when she thought about him. Angela didn’t want to remember what knowing Crawley had meant.

She turned, twisted herself on the mattress to face the wall. ‘No.’ It didn’t matter how many times she said it though, the images, the pictures and the words,
his
words, were still there.

‘Angela,’ he was calling to her.

‘Angela …’ She could hear his voice, it hadn’t changed. As a young girl she had been flattered by the voice to begin with. He was a grown-up, an adult. Mr Crawley was her teacher, her gymnastics coach. No one had shown any interest in her until he had. She felt special – he made her feel special.

‘Angela …’ The word set her muscles harder, her toes curled into the mattress. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else but he was there, taunting her wherever she looked. Henderson thought he was just a square peg, a teacher, but he wasn’t. She had tried to tell him that he was a danger, but it hadn’t registered.

‘He’s a fucking beast, Ange,’ he’d said. ‘A beast! I’ve dealt with them before.’

She didn’t want to know what he planned to do with Crawley, she didn’t want to think about it, but the longer he was away from her the more scared she became. With Henderson around she felt safe, he looked after her on the Links and made sure no harm came to her from the punters or the girls. But Crawley was different, he was capable of much worse than Henderson imagined; she knew, she’d seen it. She remembered again his eyes bulging as he wrestled her to the ground and then she felt his hot breath on her neck as he pressed himself onto her in the field.

‘Oh, God …’ Ange’s voice was low and strained, strangled in her vocal cords. A dull gaze settled in her eyes as she looked towards the window and the street below. It was as good as dark. The street lamps were on. She began to feel the walls of the small flat enclosing her.

She rose, ran to the opposite end of the room and stood by the window. A packet of cigarettes sat on the ledge, a box of matches on top – she snatched them up. Her hands trembled as she clawed open the box and shook out a cigarette. She got the filter to her mouth and struck a match; the tobacco smoke tasted good but was a poor substitute for what she really wanted. As she smoked, Angela noticed the dark black crescents that sat under her nails – Henderson had always warned her about that, said it put off the punters; she
somehow
felt engulfed by a great sadness at the thought of Henderson now and wondered what had become of him.

‘Neil, Neil … where are you?’

The cigarette burned quickly and when it was finished she stubbed the dowp on the windowsill and let the cold night breeze take the crushed filter tip away. She had seen worse nights; it was dry. A crowd of people had gathered on the other side of the road by the bus stop; it made her feel safe to see so many strangers, but at the same time the loneliness she felt in the empty flat started to prod her. Angela picked up the cigarettes and the matches and walked to the door; her shoes lay beside the skirting, she fitted her feet into them and reached for her coat. She stowed away the cigarettes and checked she had a store of condoms. Her heart was pounding as she opened the front door and walked towards the stairwell.

Angela gripped the banister tightly as she descended the staircase. Her high heels sounded noisily on the stone steps and she tried to raise herself up on her toes to compensate. She felt self-conscious, but she longed to be around people now – the flat seemed suddenly unsafe. Her thoughts had left Henderson, she was preoccupied with herself and her survival through the night; she believed if she could score enough money for drugs then at least she wouldn’t need to think about Crawley; that would be taken care of.

Outside a moonless sky sat low and dark like a backcloth to the tenements. The wind swept litter along the street and struck at Angela’s bare legs like a lash. She dug her hands deeper in her pockets, balled fists as she scanned the faces in the crowd. Crawley was out there, she knew it, sensed it. She wished Henderson was here, he would talk sense to her; Angela knew she was always letting her thoughts run away with her, that’s what Henderson had said: ‘Leave the thinking to me, Ange, you’re not fit for it.’ She liked that, liked the feeling of putting all the responsibility in someone else’s hands. But what if something had happened to him? What if Crawley had got the better of Henderson? She knew it could happen, she knew what he was capable of. She could never forget what Crawley was capable of.

Angela picked up her pace, her heels clacked on the hard paving flags; her heart rate started to ramp up. A tightening in her chest began to constrict her breathing and she slowed, balancing herself on the wall of the late-night grocer’s store with an outstretched palm. She started to cough, spat up some gelatinous bile. People walking past stared at her, she caught one of them shaking her head in her direction.

‘What’s your fucking problem, eh?’

The woman looked away, grabbed at the scarf around her neck, tightened it as she strode off at an increased pace.

‘Aye, nothing to fucking say, eh?’ Angela roared at her; she found her breath again, felt emboldened as she started off for the Links with the sounds of the street and the traffic ululating in her ears.

Cars had started to patrol the edges of the Links already. Old Cavaliers with middle-aged men craning their necks over the dash to check out the flesh on offer. Angela spotted one of the girls getting into a Volvo; there was a ‘Baby on Board’ sticker visible through the back window – it made her smile to think of the punter going back to his family after spending hard-earned wages on a tumble with a whore. No one was innocent, she thought. Everyone was tainted in some way, there was none of us perfect. She knew why she was walking the Links, what had driven her to this low in her life. She could have been somebody else once, she knew that too. She could have been the stay-at-home wife with the babies and the big telly and the weekends away; but she could also have been married to the bastard driving the Volvo, they weren’t better than her just because they lived a different way. People were trash, she’d met enough of them to form that judgement.

After an hour on the Links Angela had collected close to ninety pounds; it wasn’t enough. She doubted whether Henderson would be back to take his share – she had come to that conclusion before she left the flat – but even so, ninety wasn’t enough for her needs. She drew her jacket tight round her shoulders, looked towards the sky. The gloom of the night had settled above the rooftops
where
a blunt moon had appeared, partitioning the street and the Links with a waxy sheen. Angela withdrew a cigarette, asked one of the girls for a light.

‘Quiet night, now,’ said Kirsty.

‘Might pick up.’

‘Doubt it, think there must be a game on.’

Angela looked up the road; there was a man standing beyond the glare of the street lamp. ‘Here’s a punter now.’

‘Lucky you …’

Angela smiled, ‘I only need one and I’m off, Kirsty.’

‘Think I’ll be ahead of you.’ The brass walked away, in the opposite direction, as Angela strode out towards the man on the other side of the street. He was hunched against the wall, his face hidden. He wore a long baggy coat and the breeze caught the folds, sending them flapping like sails.

Angela called out to him, ‘You looking for business?’

There was no answer; the man barely moved, only seemed to shrink further into the shadow.

Angela took a last drag on her cigarette, flicked the butt into the street and hurried her steps. Punters were wary, some would bolt if they thought they might have been seen. She knew to play cautious; as the man turned and made for the lane, she followed. Angela was only two or three steps into the darkness when Crawley turned and clasped a hand on her mouth and dragged her kicking and trying to scream towards the depths of the narrow passage.

Angela’s eyes flickered as she watched Crawley’s features come into focus. She tried to yell out but there was no power left in her voice; she couldn’t even breath as Crawley held his hand over her mouth and nostrils. She thought she might pass out and for a second she hoped she would – that would be the end of it surely; if she passed out, she wouldn’t come round. Something caused her to struggle with what strength she had; it was as if she was drowning, flailing her arms to keep her afloat. She felt herself lifted off the ground; one of her shoes came off and then the other made contact
with
the wall of the lane and she pushed herself away with all her remaining strength.

‘Stop struggling, Angela,’ said Crawley. His voice was calm, familiar. It flung her back in time. ‘That’s better. I always knew you were a smart girl.’ Crawley released his grip on Angela’s face and neck; he looked down at her.

‘Wha …’ Angela tried to speak but the words were trapped in her.

Crawley pushed into her, she backed away. She put her hands out to feel her way, there was a recess; she backed into it and Crawley followed.

‘What d-do you want with me?’

Crawley continued to push towards her, she felt the back of the doorway. There was a handle, she turned to face it, grabbed it, but it didn’t move. She rested her head on the door, sobbed. ‘Please …’

‘Angela, come on now … You know me better than that, surely?’

She cried harder now. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘Why would I want to do that …
here
?’ Crawley raised his hands at his sides as if he was weighing the air.

Angela turned back to face him; her eyes widened as she took in the full glare of Crawley’s face. ‘I-I don’t know.’

‘And neither do I, Angela … You do know why I am here, though, don’t you?’

She shook, tried to move to her side but Crawley copied her movements and blocked her way. ‘What have you done with Neil?’

‘Ah, your boyfriend … Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. So you knew he came to see me at school, did you? Of course, you must have, how else would he have found out if you hadn’t told him?’ There was a sound of movement at the entrance to the lane; Crawley turned away, a cat mewed and he seemed to settle. He put his hand in his pocket, removed a bunch of plastic cable ties, started to loop them together.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘You made a mistake, Angela … You should never have told anyone about our little secret.’

‘I didn’t … I didn’t tell …’

He reached forward, ‘Give me your arms.’

‘No.’ She pinned herself against the doorway again, called out, ‘Help! Help me …’

Crawley reached a hand to her throat, said, ‘Now I’m warning you …’

Angela struggled harder, reached out with her nails. ‘Help!’

‘Stop fucking about!’ Crawley grabbed one of her wrists, slipped her hand through the cable tie and tightened it. She pushed her way past him as he slipped the second loop over her other hand, then the sound of fast-moving footsteps from the lane seemed to still him.

‘Ange! … Ange, you OK?’ It was Kirsty.

Crawley loosened his grip on the ties and let Angela’s hands fall to her side; as he bolted into the lane, she slumped against the door and sobbed.

Chapter 36

NEIL HENDERSON GIRDED
himself against the cold wind as he walked, trying hard to still the rage he felt burning inside him, hot as any blast furnace. He cleared his throat as he approached the bus stop, spat fast onto the street. He raised his head to look over at the windows of the flat he shared with Angela; he didn’t want to return there but knew he had no choice. Crawley had fled, but he couldn’t have gone far; Henderson knew he wouldn’t have gone far. There was no point: what would it take, a call? One call, that was all that was needed to put Crawley away. Henderson knew he had him; the beast would be back, had to be back, had to return to his home and face him. Henderson held all the cards, there was no question of that, the only thing he wondered about now was just what the hell Crawley thought he was playing at.

Henderson waited for a gap in the traffic, picked up his pace as he ran between a Lothian Bus and a blue Micra; the small car started to roll forward as he stepped in front of it and he stopped in his tracks.

‘What the fuck you playing at?’ he roared. He raised up his hands then slammed them down on the bonnet of the car; it was an old man behind the wheel, he looked at Henderson over the dash and shook his head. It came as incitement to the younger man. ‘You fucking old prick!’ He kicked at the bumper, sneered
again
and then walked off, saluting the V-sign as he went. By the other side of the street Henderson was still venting his anger, kicking out at the door to the stairwell and stomping in.