Murder Mile (30 page)

She struggled harder, seemed to sense the anger that was burning inside of Henderson. He pressed his hand deeper into her face but
her
mouth seemed to widen to accommodate his palm and then she jerked forward and he felt the bite of her teeth on the fleshy underside of his hand.

‘Ah, you fucking bitch!’ He recoiled, turning his hand under his arm and folding himself over. The pain shot through him, he took his hand out, saw blood.

Angela ran from him towards the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the boards as she went.

Henderson heard her opening the kitchen drawers, rattling cutlery. He straightened himself, looked down at the hand Angela had bitten. The palm throbbed, the thin flesh was torn and blood ran in a narrow trail towards his fingers. He could see her teeth marks, little puncture wounds that sat white above the skin. He shook out the sting of the wound, cursed, and ran after her. As he entered the kitchen Angela stood before him with her arms outstretched, her hands clutching at the haft of a large knife. She seemed unsteady on her feet but her jaw had set firm, signalling her resolve. She swiped the air before her with the knife.

‘Are you off your fucking head?’ said Henderson.

‘You just fucking leave me alone!’ her voice screeched.

Henderson edged forward, smiling. He kicked out at the upturned drawer on the floor and closed in on her, ‘I’m warning you, bitch, that knife comes anywhere near to connecting with me – even fucking close – and I’ll use it to gut you.’

Angela screamed, ‘Fuck off! Leave me!’

‘Oh, I’ll leave you … As I fucking found you.’ He lunged forward to grab her arm, knock the knife away; Angela withdrew; lunging out with the blade in a sweeping arc she caught Henderson across the face and chest. He yelled out as the knife fell to the floor.

Angela ran to the corner of the room and cowered there.

Henderson shouted out, ‘Look what you’ve done!’ He touched the blood spilling from his cheek and jaw, pressed the tear in his shirt fold. His chest tightened, the pain from the wound was intense but the rage beneath it felt as if someone had reached in and grabbed his heart, squeezed tight. ‘You fucking bitch!’

He bent over and kicked the knife across the kitchen floor. As he did so, Angela stood against the wall with her eyes wide and her lips quivering. She pushed herself flat against the bare plaster and screamed out. ‘Help!’

‘You fucking bitch!’ said Henderson again. His brain itched; he felt queasy, the whole situation had the unreality of dreams. He took steps towards her but his legs didn’t feel like his own, the sound of his footfalls was amplified, seemed to echo off the walls. ‘You fucking bitch! … You fucking bitch!’ The words were a siren wailing in his head as his fingertips burned with a slow friction around her neck. He held her, pressed hard to the wall, for as long as it took the life to drain from her face. The eyes bulged out, then her mouth drooped open and her head lolled to the side, settled on her shoulder. He released his grip and watched Angela fall to the ground in a tangle of thin limbs. Her wide eyes protruded from within her grey–pink face as she lay on the floor.

‘You fucking stupid bitch!’ he said. ‘Couldn’t leave well alone, could you?’

He stood over her, watching the motionless body she had once inhabited. He ran an open hand through his hair, gripped the crown and turned his face into the crook of his elbow. ‘You had to fucking ruin it … Just had to.’

Henderson felt his heart pounding inside his chest; he removed his hand from his head and touched his bloodied shirt front. He walked towards the sink and started to run the tap. He removed his shirt, tearing the buttons off as he did so, and then dropped it on the floor beside Angela. The slash across his chest was a clean cut, deep enough to cause blood loss but he knew it wasn’t so serious as to require hospital attention. He soaked a towel and dabbed with it; the raw tenderness of the wound caused him to wince but he continued to swab the wound and then held the towel in place with his hand for a moment to allow the blood to coagulate. As he looked down at Angela’s twisted body he knew what he had to do next. He reached down to the floor and retrieved the kitchen knife she had attacked him with and held it in his hand.

‘You fucking asked for it, Ange … You know that.’ Henderson eyed the cold steel of the blade then pressed the knife’s point in the counter to test its strength. As he did so, he caught Angela’s wide-eyed stare and ran over to close her eyelids. ‘You can fucking-well pack that in as well,’ he said.

As he stepped back, looked at the woman he had killed lying on the floor, he started to laugh. ‘Aye well, we might just get what we want out that beast bastard yet, Ange.’ He removed the towel from his chest, blood was still weeping from the wound but only enough to line the skin’s open fold. He reached down to grab Angela’s wrist. As he dragged her from the kitchen he tucked the knife’s blade into the back of his belt; he was surprised how heavy her lifeless body was.

Chapter 40

AS DI ROB BRENNAN
walked into the Chief Super’s office he eyed the back of Jim Gallagher’s head with a burning contempt. Brennan had risen early, made a point of getting the first editions of the newspapers and listening to the radio news bulletin in the car on the way to the station. He had known what to expect from the evening news the night before but the sight of DI Gallagher in Benny’s office threw up images of his worst nightmare coming true.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Brennan.

‘Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?’ said the Chief Super.

Brennan shrugged. ‘If you like.’

‘They do seem wholly inappropriate, wouldn’t you agree?’

Brennan was tempted to add a smart-arse reply of his own, something like his mother saying manners cost nothing, but he let it slide. He was in enough trouble as it stood.

Gallagher shifted in his seat as Brennan drew level with him; there was no acknowledgement between the two men. The Chief Super shook his head and sighed, he raised both hands towards the ceiling in an exasperated salute and returned to his seat. ‘Sit down, Rob,’ he bellowed.

Brennan removed the chair in front of him, opened his coat and
sat
down. He watched as the Chief Super pressed his fingertips into his temples and massaged; he seemed stressed, even for a man whose natural state was to be stressed.

‘Guess what’s on my mind, Rob?’ said the Chief Super.

‘Sir?’

‘No, go on, indulge me …’

Brennan crossed his legs. ‘Well, if I was to hazard a guess it would be the Sloan case and …’

The Chief Super interrupted, ‘And perhaps the way it’s been portrayed in the press?’

Brennan paused, resumed his calm tone, ‘Well, I was going to say, how it has been linked to the Fiona Gow cold case which,’ he flagged a hand in Gallagher’s direction, ‘he gifted to the press yesterday.’

Gallagher leaned forward, turned to face Brennan. ‘Now, come on.’

‘Come on what, Jim? … Are you disputing that hack had your number from the moment you walked through the door? You should never have been within a mile of that press conference and you know it.’

The Chief Super raised his hands again, glanced upwards again. ‘OK. Look, Rob, it was my idea to put Jim in the press call …’

Brennan tutted.

‘Was that a tut, Inspector?’ said the Chief Super.

‘Sir, it was my press conference, and we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess now if it had been left to me. Just like this is my case and it should be left to me.’

The Chief Super closed his mouth, leaned back in his chair. For a moment he paused before Brennan and Gallagher and then he opened a blue folder on his desk. ‘When it’s left to you, you go wild with overtime and hire profilers from Strathclyde!’

Brennan felt his throat freeze. ‘I needed a profiler and he was the best man for the job.’

‘That’s not my point, Rob …’

‘Well, then I’m missing the point, sir.’

The Chief Super leaned forward; he removed his glasses from his top pocket and put them on his nose. ‘The point is you need to be closely supervised,’ he ran his index finger down a column of figures, ‘… you appointed Lorrimer after I cautioned you about the overtime spending and I don’t know what to expect from you next.’

Gallagher started to tap at the leg of his chair with his foot; Brennan turned away, held himself in check.

‘No comment, Rob?’ said the Chief Super.

Brennan flared, ‘Look, Lorrimer is the best there is, what sort of a state do you think this investigation will be in without the best people on the job? You know we’re in enough shit as it is with the press; if we don’t get results soon we’re going to be in even more … My job is catching criminals, not counting little rows of numbers in ledgers!’

‘Wrong, Rob.’ The Chief Super rose from his chair, pointed at Brennan. ‘Your job is to do whatever I tell you to do. And not the bloody opposite!’

Brennan watched as the Chief Super kept his gaze fixed on him; he felt his mouth dry over and then a line of sweat formed on the back of his neck. He had seen Benny fire up before but never in front of anyone else; it should be a private affair – carpetings were something personal. This was new territory and it confused Brennan. If Benny had wanted to take the case from him, he would have done that by now; he sensed a shift. It could have been the fact that Brennan was now firmly fixed in the media’s glare – he was leading the investigation – if he was suddenly stripped of command, that would make the force seem in turmoil. Moreover, Benny’s favourite son – Gallagher – had been identified as the investigating officer from a similar unsolved case; Benny couldn’t put Gallagher at the head of the team without attracting even more criticism. It was a stalemate. Brennan knew what that meant: the investigation might be his now but only in name; Benny would be calling the shots and that wouldn’t ease up after the case was closed. Benny had been disgraced and he wanted Brennan to pay for that. The
fact
Gallagher had been shown up too was not to be ignored; circumstances had conspired to keep the investigating officer’s role from him, but Gallagher would still need someone to blame, and Brennan knew who that would be.

The DI wiped the palms of his hands on his trouser legs as he prepared to reply to the Chief Super; there was a moment of dead calm in the room where even breathing seemed to have ceased and then, as he was about to speak, the phone on the Chief Super’s desk started to ring.

‘Yes, Hill …’ his tone was firm, then suddenly changed, ‘What? And the locus?’

Brennan caught Gallagher’s eyes taking him in; they both looked away.

The Chief Super continued, ‘And where are you now? … Right, do not make a three-ring circus out of this, I do not want the press alerted!’

As the Chief Super returned the receiver to its cradle he seemed to have lost several shades of colour. He looked gloomily towards Brennan and spoke, ‘We have another one.’

Brennan lunged forward in his seat, ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s another murder … Same as the others.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Gallagher. ‘Where about, same locale?’

The Chief Super nodded, ‘Within a mile’s radius … McGuire is on his way out there, and the SOCO squad.’

Brennan rose, ‘Right. I better get on this.’ He turned for the door.

‘Rob, take Jim with you …’

Brennan halted mid-stride, ‘Would you like me to carry him?’

‘Very droll … This is not the time for jokes, Brennan.’

‘I’m not joking, sir …’ He turned to Gallagher, ‘Shift your arse, Jim, I’m not waiting for you.’

As they left the Chief Super’s office, Brennan noticed Benny had spun his seat to face the window. He sat staring out into the open sky like a man who had lost his way in the world.

On the stairs Brennan took out his mobile phone and dialled DS Stevie McGuire’s number. The phone was answered on the third ring.

‘Hello, sir …’

‘Stevie, where are you now?’

‘Erm, well, let me see …’ there was a pause on the line, ‘if you orientate yourself from the Straiton roundabout then we’re about half a mile down the A720 … past the last crime scene.’

‘Same side of the road?’

‘Which road?’

‘The bypass, Stevie.’

‘Yes, same side … But the other side of the access road.’

‘Right. I know where you are.’

Brennan let the front door of the station swing shut behind him; he watched Gallagher open it again himself and jog towards the VW Passat. When he was behind the wheel, he turned over the ignition and watched as Gallagher broke into a sprint. When the DI was in the passenger’s seat, Brennan released the handbrake and pulled out.

They drove in complete quiet for the best part of the journey, until Gallagher broke the silence. ‘Look, it wasn’t my idea to put me in the press call. You can’t blame me for that.’

Brennan bit. ‘You’ve had your mind set on big-footing me from this investigation from the off, Jim; if it wasn’t the press call it would have been something else.’

‘That’s some fucking ego you have … Why would I want your case?’

Brennan smirked at him, ‘Because you’re a glory hunter, always have been. You let your ambition get in the way of good sense. This time, it might have been Benny’s idea for you to be on the panel but you could have said no … I mean, didn’t you see that fucking hack there?’

‘Jesus Christ, Rob, how many hacks are there? I can’t be expected to remember every fucking one.’

Brennan took his eyes from the road, fleetingly put them on Gallagher, ‘He remembered you well enough.’

The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. At the Straiton roundabout Brennan eased off the accelerator pedal and
lowered
the gears, took second. There were no officers viewable from the road. He scanned further down the exit and put his indicator on. At the point of the original crime scene Brennan started to look for the access road DS Stevie McGuire had mentioned; when he spotted it he started to slow again, dropped down through the gears once more.

‘You know, Jim, there’s something I don’t quite understand.’

Gallagher sneered, ‘Oh really, is that a doubt?’